


Red Ink

by Intent_To_Stay



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blackwatch Era, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Blackwatch Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Canon-Typical Violence, Deadlock McCree, Dissociation, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Interrogation, POV Jesse McCree, Plot Twists, Pre-Blackwatch McCree, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Trans Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, Trans Jesse McCree, Underage Drinking, Undercover Missions, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-01 17:51:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 75,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10926948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Intent_To_Stay/pseuds/Intent_To_Stay
Summary: Deadlock had one rule: Be useful.Blackwatch, as far as Jesse is concerned, is the same.





	1. Rust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit oc heavy, but future chapters will focus exclusively on canon characters.

There’s a certain kind of light down in the red canyons. It ain’t light at all. Its fire bearing down on skin, radiation ripping into sub-dermal and fabric, leaving cloth sun-bleached and skin sun-darkened. It’s the weight of the sky pushing back on the bones and the air sitting heavy and still in the chest. It’s the itch of need at the back of the throat that Jesse has learned to ignore.

In other words, it’s fucking hot.

“I’m not going outside, Kneecap,” Jesse drawls from his booth, flipping through the pages of some old story. “I’m not suicidal.” The air conditioning was broken when Jesse got back and it’s running only quarter-capacity. That’s a big step down from the New Mexico set up, so Jesse’s not moving from his shady, weak-winded corner unless he’s getting shot at.

“Oh, come on, kid,” Kneecap complains. “You keep Montoya from fucking around just by standing there. No effort needed.”

That’s not what this is about. Kneecap gets a kick out of doing his little will-they-won’t-they dance with Montoya. It’s probably the only action he ever sees. Naw, this is about the fact that Jesse saved his ass, and now he’s feelin’ the inadequacy. Now he’s just trying to make things return to normal. And Jesse isn’t interested in that potential outcome.

Jesse clucks his tongue. “Not my problem, _compadre_. If you learned how to aim a damn gun, he’d fear you just as much.”

“Kid,” the man groans.

“Fuck off,” Jesse replies, glancing up from his coffee-stained book. “You got the fresh meat with you. Just go get the shipment.”

Kneecap’s expression twists, baring his teeth. A week ago, talking back like this would get him a broken nose—probably worse if he’s being honest—but the tables have turned. Jesse is the golden boy this week and Kneecap is the red-headed step child. He can’t complain to Colt without lookin’ like a coward, and he can’t shoot Jesse because Jesse earned his keep three times over this month, unlike someone whose history of progressively worse fuckups would have warranted a bullet in the brain if someone less merciful had been calling the shots.

Still, it feels like he’s walking a fine line. Mouthing off like this is dangerous, even if he’s got Colt’s favor.

Kneecap scoffs when Jesse just raises an eyebrow at his (admittedly impressive) bitch-face. “They grow up so fast,” Kneecap whines to the empty air, taking on that smug attitude he _knows_ pisses Jesse off. “They forget all the favors you’ve done them quick as they can. All the years of bringing ya anything you asked for, and you can’t even do your uncle Kneecap _one_ solid.”

Jesse grits his jaw and slams his book down on the table. He shoves his hat on and doesn’t look at the victorious look on Kneecap’s face. “You aren’t my fucking uncle,” he spits, but it’s a lame comeback and he knows it.

Kneecap just smiles pleasantly as Jesse peels himself out of his booth. “We’re all family here, Jessie-boy. And don’t worry—you’re my favorite nephew.”

Jesse scowls and doesn’t reply. Knowing Kneecap, he’d probably mess up something as simple as an arms exchange without someone to hold his hand. And besides, he’d just keep nagging until he got what he wanted. And it wasn’t hard. Jesse just had to stand there and look menacing and he can do that. He usually gets mocked until bullets start flying, but that’s slowly begun to change. His reputation has grown quite a bit in the past year.

He’s got a bounty about half as big as Colt’s and he’s still a minor.

Usually, that warrants respect. From Kneecap, he gets even more jokes.

Kneecap pats him on the back and grins at him. Jesse rolls his eyes and shrugs off the hand on his shoulder. He treks outside and climbs into the back of the covered truck that’s idling outside. He nods to Cormac and Mari; they do the same, but a second later their eyes are closed in some attempt to catch some shut-eye. They’re newcomers who’ve barely been with the gang for six months. Under normal circumstances, the two wouldn’t be anywhere near the base, but times are rough.

Mari’s an ex-GI who couldn’t leave behind the lifestyle. Dishonorable discharge over something to do with extortion and blackmail. Deadlock picked her up from indie-contracting after she made a name for herself in Colorado. But yeah, forty-something family woman who needs the money and is pretty good with a pistol. Served with distinction in the Onmic crisis. She’s still got the efficiency and brutality in her bones.

Cormac’s twenty-eight and in it for the thrill. His contacts with drug runners make him useful enough to keep around, but he’s got more guts than sense. Lot of brash trash-talk without the balls to back it up. The only reason he’s made it this far is that he’s got no problem with flattery and he knows quite a bit about antique weaponry. Good salesman. Slimy individual.

Both of them had been working with the California branch before their base got burned, so they’ve only been at headquarters for a week or so. Jesse never actually spoke with them. Cormac grated against his nerves and Mari doesn’t talk much anyway. And lackeys tend to have a short expiration date. Getting attached is a bad idea. If they live another two or three months, he might bother getting to know ‘em.

The silence makes the drive a bit more pleasant despite the heat. It’s just Jesse, two bodies, and the scenery rushing by at eighty miles an hour from the back of an armored semi. The cracked blacktop cuts through the rusted scenery like a line of oil, stretching out into canyons and the bubbling horizon It’s not too long a drive—just far enough that the world levels out into paper-flat zone of cracked earth where any ambush would be impossible. It’s a courtesy as much as it is a precaution.

The armored truck grinds to a halt, and Jesse sighs before kicking away the empty crate he used as a foot-rest. Cormac shoots him a glare when it knocks him in the knee, but Jesse hops out of the back without a backward glance. It’s getting late: Sundown in less than an hour, the air burning with gold and the scarlet flame of light shotgun-scattering through the atmosphere. He winces and pulls his hat lower. It’s too bright. He can feel the sun beating down on his arms even through the fabric of his shirt. It’s too hot. Oven-air hot and Jesse is melting into the ground where he stands.

Then people start talking, and Jesse turns around. He’s not there to look pretty.

Montoya and Kneecap are doing their usual dance of thinly veil insults behind friendly conversation. The only thing keeping the two of them from ripping each other apart are Colt’s orders. Jesse knows that besides that, Colt encourages them to hate each other. It means they’ll never try to screw him over.

_Divide and conquer, Jesse._

Jesse would pay money to see them just have a giant full-out brawl. Nothing but fists and hate. That would be a hilarious catharsis for the years he’s spent on edge waiting for things to dissolve into violence. That was before Jesse realized they're both too whipped to actually start anything. It’s like a bomb where the countdown resets at the last possible second. You stop preparing for the fallout.

Montoya chokes on whatever barb he was about the deliver when he catches sight of Jesse. “Oh. McCree.”

Jesse tilts his head and makes a note to tell Kneecap to quit looking so smug after all this is over. Montoya’s got a good reason to be nervous. Jesse’s got a reputation and it ain’t a pretty one. Montoya knows him personally enough to understand that it’s deserved.

“I thought you were off somewhere in New Mexico,” Montoya prods, “Preparing for that strike on Air Force transport lines.” It’s an invitation to explain.

An invitation Jesse sees no need to accept.

“It got canceled.” He glances at the goons behind Montoya. Three are unloading their transport, a big name produce truck, setting wooden banana crates on the ground. Two are just waiting, their high high-tech rifles in hand, but the safety on. They’re meant to be scary, probably. In reality, they just look like very large, very slow targets.

“Any idea why?” Montoya presses.

Kneecap steps forward and thankfully takes over the talking aspect of this job. “Yeah, it’s a funny story. We got told by an informant that we were made. Colt decided to wait for these bad boys before we tried again.” He tilts his head and strolls over to the wooden crates lying on the ground. He nudges it with his foot. “Let’s have a look-see.”

Mari crowbars the wood open. Lying inside are military grade pulse rifles. Jesse blinks. That’s _Overwatch_ tech. The real deal. He’d known they were getting something new, but _this_ is not what he expected. His hand twitches towards his own revolver. If Colt thinks Jesse is trading up, he’s mistaken. Automatic are bad enough—pulse tech is just pushing into a new frontier of awful.

Kneecap whistles. “Now that’s just got to be the prettiest sight I ever did see.” He grins and slings an arm over Montoya’s shoulders. Montoya stiffens. Kneecap gestures to the ground. “I gotta know: How’d a two-bit weapons dealer like you get a hold of somethin’ like this?”

Montoya recovers from his initial shock and laughs it off, smoothly shrugging away Kneecap’s arm. He takes too many steps back to seem completely unbothered. “The black market works in mysterious ways. If I told every stranger my secrets, I’d be out of a job.”

Kneecap laughs as well, and Jesse feels his stomach twist.

“But you’re willing to tell strangers our secrets, aren’t ya?”

Montoya flinches. It’s a moth-wing twitch, fragile and flittering and vulnerable. Montoya’s eyes narrow. “And where would you get an idea like that, my old friend?”

The goons with Montoya step forward a bit. The click and clank of guns shifting is loud against the still air.

Jesse stays perfectly silent, perfectly still. He’s calling bullshit. The danger, the threat in Montoya’s voice isn’t cold enough. It’s too shaky to be stoic. Too adrenaline-shot to be iron, too human to be purely business.

Which means he’s afraid.

And that means Jesse should start inching his way towards cover. Just in case.

“Well, ya see,” Kneecap says, scratching the back of his neck. “We’ve had quite a few misfires these past few months. If it weren’t for ol’ Jesse here, Colt might’ve lost his head back in New Mexico.”

There’s no might about that one—they’d be lucky to find all the skull fragments if Jesse hadn’t been there.

Kneecap steps forward until he’s almost nose to nose with Montoya, his tone unerringly friendly. “And I’ve noticed that all of our problems seem to have one man in common.”

Montoya bares his teeth. “And what does Colt seem to think of your brilliant deduction?”

Kneecap scoffs, his face disappointed: his bluff didn’t go through. He turns on his heel and shrugs. “Colt and I have our opinions, Montoya. He’s fond of empirical evidence.”

Montoya glares at Kneecap’s back. “And what evidence did you gather?”

There isn’t any. There’s nothing. Colt would tell him if there were. Colt would have told him to go on this exchange if there were. Kneecap wouldn’t have had to _ask_ Jesse to come if he had any evidence.

Which begs the question.

What the fuck is he doing?

Jesse slowly repositions back towards the truck. He spies Mari doing the same. His hand wandered over to his revolver at some point during that pissing contest. He doesn’t move it. He’s got minimal ammo, but more than enough to deal with six people.

Kneecap throws over his shoulder in reply, “That’s why we brought Jesse.”

Reputation is a fickle bitch.

The world explodes into gunfire. Jesse launches back and throws himself behind the truck. His revolver is in his hand and his heart is in his throat.

Kneecap’s got his Colt .45 in his palm and a grin on his face.

“What the _fuck_ did you do!?” Jesse yells over the hail of bullets.

“Found us a rat!” Kneecap yells in glee, peeking around the side of the truck to exchange fire. Mari’s near the front of the truck doing the same, Cormac behind her in support covering with automatic AK-spray.

The Overwatch tech lays out in the open behind an iron curtain that no one in their right mind would try to go for.

Jesse wants to tear his hair out. Colt didn’t approve this. Colt didn’t _allow_ this. This isn’t going to go well. This isn’t going to _fucking_ go well.

Jesse is ripped out of his head by the crushing grip on his shoulder.

“I’m sending Cormac out the side,” Kneecap shouts. “When I signal, go and get a line of sight.”

Jesse shakes his head. “We can fix this! We just need—“

Jesse is suddenly looking down a barrel. “I didn’t bring you here to run your mouth,” Kneecap snarls. “Now get out there and do your job.”

Jesse stiffens and his mouth goes dry.

Kneecap’s eyes are as cold and dark and threatening as his gun. He wouldn’t do it. Colt would be pissed.

_Maybe Colt doesn’t care as much as you think he does. Maybe Kneecap doesn’t give a fuck about the consequences._

He wouldn’t. Jesse knows it.

But whether or not he would shoot him doesn’t matter. Jesse’s been told where to aim. His only job is to fire.

Jesse closes his eyes and lets everything fall away. It’s too loud, too bright, too hot. He forces his mind to focus only on the gun in his hand. Everything narrows until the whole world is nothing but a target range.

Kneecap smiles like family and lowers his gun. “Cormac!” He tosses the man a flash grenade and hauls Jesse to his feet. “Go!”

Cormac sprints forward to the cover of the other truck and throws the device. Jesse darts out. He barely hears the explosion. He takes in the chaos of stunned bodies and his arm rises like the sun. The trigger gives way. The recoil is gentle. It’s simple work. Targets are easy when stunned.

One-two-three-four-five-six.

And after that last roar of noise, everything is silent.

And then Cormac laughs. “Holy shit!”

Jesse looks at the pile of bodies and gore and his head is about as empty as his revolver.

_Colt didn’t approve this. He isn’t going to like this. He’s going to be furious._

Kneecap pats him on the back and Jesse would have shot him in the mouth to get rid of the smug look on his face if he had any bullets left.

Kneecap doesn’t notice his malice. He strides over to the mess and kneels down. Jesse grimaces. Black may not stain all that much but the smell will linger.

“Bingo.” Kneecap rises from the ground. He’s holding something—some kind of hearing aid, maybe. It’s red.

He hears Kneecap order, “Pack up. We need to tell Colt.” Mari and Cormac hop to it, and Jesse lets them handle it. He’s got to wind down. He’s got to get his brain out of that blurry hyper-focus that makes anything that moves a target.

_Damn if it ain’t effective but he’s a liability if he can’t switch it off._

He climbs inside the truck and wedges himself into the corner. He reloads his revolver, urging every bullet into its rightful place. He always had extra bullets on hand. It was practically protocol to never be without backup ammo. Jesse guesses this is kind of why. The familiar motion is enough to pull at the edges of the film wrapped around his frontal lobe. He actually feels like he’s back inside his body by the time the truck starts.

Normally, that’d be a sainthood-miracle. Today, it just means that he get’s to listen to Cormac’s running commentary, the words buzzing like wasps inside his eardrums.

“And then McCree just fucking—Boom! Headshot!“ Cormac mimes a gun going off. He’s bursting with good cheer and excitement. Jesse wants to push him out the back end and leave him in the desert. He’d find his way eventually. And if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be much of a loss.

“I’m aware,” Mari informs him. “I was there.” She’s rubbing at her eyes. The seating in the back is limited with all the new cargo, so she’s stuck sitting next Cormac. Jesse figures better her than him.

“Where the hell did you learn that, McCree?” Cormac leans forward and wipes the sweat off his forehead.

Jesse shrugs. “Practice.”

“Fuck, what you just _did_? How much practice?” Cormac presses.

“Lots.”

“Cormac,” Mari cuts in, “please do us all a favor and shut up.”

Cormac sneers. “Oh, why don’t you make me?”

Jesse’s fully prepared to take him up on that offer. No insult goes left unanswered, after all. Not if you want any respect.

Mari’s elbow smashes into his jaw. Cormac’s skull smacks into the wall of the truck, and he slumps forward. He doesn’t move again.

“I honestly hate him,” Mari mutters. “We just killed six people on unsubstantiated evidence, and he wants to joke.”

Ah. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a certified moral compass in the room.

Jesse shrugs and picks at the dirt under his nails. “They shot first. It was us or them.”

Really, Montoya should have known better than to fall for that sorta shit. Stupidity might as well be a capital crime out here, and those idiots were as guilty as sin.

Mari shakes her head. “No, it really wasn’t.” Her eyes are old and her hair is shot through with gray and she looks tired and so much like—

Jesse looks away. The sun is setting. The sky is red. The earth is red. Everything is so fucking red that Jesse wishes he could just find another color. The shade just adds another layer to his migraine.

They pass into the gorge. Jesse’s been chewing on his words for a good ten minutes, but he finally says, “Colt will fix it.” That’s not nearly all he feels the need to say, but it’s sure as hell the only thing he’s willing to voice. If she needs someone to hold her hand over a little murder, she came to the wrong person.

“Fix people dying?” Mari tilts her head back and lets it settle against the wall.

Jesse feels his nails bite into his palms.

_They’re fucking dead, so get over it._

“Yep,” Jesse drawls. “Colt’s got the good lord’s power of resurrection.”

Mari raises her eyebrows, and Jesse rolls his eyes before looking away. It ain’t his fault she’s a fucking hypocrite. Killing people is in the job description. She should just get over it.

The truck slows to a halt and Jesse is on the ground before the engine dies.

Mari doesn’t take the hint and follows right after. “Show me the route to the frequency monitoring station,” she says. It’s an order that somehow sounds like a polite request.

Jesse glances at her. “That’s need-to-know info.”

“How convenient. I need to know.”

Jesse didn’t learn where that thing was hidden until he was sixteen. It’s kept a secret for a good reason: it stalls and monitors all unapproved communications and signals in an approximately seven-mile radius. Deadlock gorge is a dead zone for a reason—if people can’t coordinate, they’re easy to kill. If people can’t figure out where they are, it’s easy to hide. Colt doesn’t let the information slide to just anyone. “I’m not taking you there.”

“We need to analyze the bug we found on Montoya.” She holds up the flesh-colored transmitter. “If there’s any record of the signal, we can figure out what he was listening to.”

Jesse narrows his eyes. That’s important, yeah, but it still isn’t _allowed_. Jesse would do it himself, but he has no clue how. That kind of shit requires a high school education at the very least. He knows enough about reading the software that the gang has running, but looking at other devices is above his pay grade. “We need to ask Colt.”

 “Oh, Jesse, just show her,” Kneecap calls out. “We’ve got to unload this anyways and I need a minute alone with the boss.”

And, of course, Kneecap wants to keep digging his grave.

He debates whether or not it’s worth it to argue.

It isn’t. It usually never is. Kneecap will do whatever the hell he wants. Jesse will just shut up and do as he’s told. That’s what makes him useful, after all.

Jesse motions for her to follow. She falls into step behind him, and Jesse treks behind the central dining car, squeezing into a well disguised but definitely unnatural enclave. The light fades away almost completely after a few twists, but Jesse doesn’t mind. He’s spent so many days wandering these tunnels that he could do it blind and drunk.

 It might be easier to turn on the lights, but then he wouldn’t get to hear Mari trip over the uneven ground and bump against the walls. Pettiness is such a great pass-time. Jesse is sure he’s never going to grow out of that one.

He shimmies around one last corner and manages to find the light switch by the dim glow of the monitoring systems. The cavern is about as pretty as a third world hospital, a chaotic mess of cables and dust and processing units. Still, it’s the best place to store technology—no danger of humidity or over-heating.

“This is a mess,” Mari says, brusquely stepping over cable bundles and going over to a monitor.

“It does the job,” Jesse says. He plants himself by the entrance and closes his eyes against the fluorescent lights.

“It’s password protected.” She sounds a little offended by that.

“What did you expect?” Jesse says.

“It just seems a little over-kill,” Mari replies. “What is it?”

Jesse rattles off a string of seventeen characters that has Mari blinking. He’s probably just being lazy at this point, but he isn’t in the mood to maneuver through the jungle of wires and server systems. “Just write it down,” he huffs. When she finds a pen among the clutter, he repeats, “7A4-245-3e46-291-If56”

After the initial hurdle of actually getting into the system, Mari seems to know what she’s doing, so Jesse lets her handle it.

She’s typing away, and the tapping of keys is loud in the enclosed space. “So is everything housed in the caves?”

Jesse hums. “Pretty much. We get solar and route everything in, but most spots in here have backup generators.”

The concept itself isn’t Deadlock design—before this town was left for dead, the cave systems were a tourist attraction. That shit requires power. It was a pretty simple task to just upgrade the wiring, add a few branches here and there.

“It seems dangerous to keep it so far out of reach. Who monitors the system?”

Jesse rolls his eyes. “Colts the one with keys to the kingdom. Ask him.” Jesse knows, of course, but he’s not in the mood to talk. If there’s ever any chatter, Colt’s got a way of knowing and he’ll send someone to check. That’s all anyone like Mari needs to know: Colt will take care of it.

“How about—“

“Look,” Jesse snaps, “I’m not a tour guide. Whatever you need to know, you’ll know it when you need it. So just check the bug and see what’s on it so we can get the hell out of here.”

Mari’s silent for a second. “I take it you don’t like being underground.”

Jesse rolls his eyes. “What gave it away?” He’s not claustrophobic or anything like that. It’s the air. It always tastes stale, always leaves him feeling like he needs a deeper breath.

“You know your way around these tunnels pretty well for someone who dislikes them,” Mari says.

Jesse thinks he can hear some sarcasm in that statement but it’s far too subtle for him tell for sure. “Well,” he drawls, “familiarity breeds contempt and all that.” He knows them forwards and backward and every way in between. It used to be his only way to amuse himself whenever he got left to his own devices.

“You make it sound like—“ Mari cuts off. Jesse glances over. If her face was any closer to the screen, she’d fall right through. He can’t see her expression, but the line of her shoulders is anything but relieved.

Finally, Jesse can’t stand the silence. “What is it?”

Mari’s rubbing her temples again. “Moonlight Sonata.”

“What?”

“Moonlight Sonata,” she repeats, swiping at the screen to call up some mournful piano piece. It reverberates like an actual musician is just around the corner, just out of sight. “Beethoven. God, he looked like a Beethoven fan.”

Jesse closes his eyes and breathes past the stale air in his chest. “So we just did all that for nothing.”

“This can’t even connect to satellite. It’s made to directly route to another device.” Mari pushes her hair away from her face and silences the music. “We just lost a business partner over classical music.”

Jesse bites his lip. The dry air has them cracked and chapped and a second away from bleeding. “That doesn’t prove he wasn’t a rat.”

“Nothing we have proves that.”

“They shot first.”

Mari doesn’t bother challenging that; she shifts gears like a professional and refocuses. “I want to check further reaching signals to make sure no one has discovered the shoot-out.”

“We have nothing that could make that range,” Jesse murmurs. The monitoring system is good despite being housed in the middle of fucking nowhere, but it isn’t some end all be all for surveillance. If it were, this wouldn’t be happening.

“Really? I thought we did.”

Jesse shakes his head. He wasn’t up to date on the system they system they had—used to have—in California, but that seemed a bit far-fetched. Then again, Jesse had what amounted to less than a high school education concerning that stuff, so what did he know? Certainly nothing about _fucking Beethoven_ —

“We need to report in,” Mari mutters. Jesse can hear the military in her voice when she says that.

Resignation.

Duty.

He pulls his hat lower and steels himself. It’s a familiar sound.

* * *

 

The argument is audible even before they get close enough to knock. That’s less of a comment on its loudness than it is on the stillness of the gorge and the thin walls. Everyone with no reason to be near is being quiet—either to listen in or not draw ire, Jesse isn’t sure.

“Montoya has had connections to every single sting we’ve dealt with in the last four months!”

“So have you,” Colt replies, “but I didn’t take that as encouragement to put a bullet in your brain.”

Kneecap shoots back, “No, you decided to sit on that information and look what happened in California.”

“Any number of people had information on California,” Colt reasons. “That base was poorly run. Your recruits don’t know how to keep their mouths shut.”

“They’ve been running fine without guidance for the last four years.”

“Anyone good enough to be a threat was off dealing with Omnics—they didn’t need to be quality, just a placeholder until I got done with New Mexico.”

Jesse is fine with waiting for the air to cool between the two of them. Mari’s more impatient. She strikes the door, loud and clear and Jesse really wishes she had better timing. It’s not like any new they could bring would be good, but they are definitely the messengers of the worst possible outcome. Messengers of the worst possible outcome at the worst possible time.

Silence.

“Come in,” Colt sighs.

Jesse wipes away his grimace and steps into professionalism. It’s better to be blank. If he’s blank, if he’s logical and precise, if he keeps it all short and sweet, maybe it won’t blow up in his face.

It won’t work. Jesse wishes he could just quit bullshitting himself.

Colt takes one look at him from his couch and says, “So, it’s the bad news.”

Kneecap turns. He’s grim. “Did you find a record of transmission?”

Mari steps forward. “The device you found is only capable of streaming from a device stationed nearby—probably so the person in question can’t be bugged or monitored or traced unless the main encrypted port is compromised.”

“So there’s no traceable record,” Kneecap concludes. “That’s a bit suspicious, isn’t it?”

Mari’s stone. She’s a statue. She’s a shade at the gate of Hades, unflinching, full of only the truth. “There is a record. He was listening to music.”

Colt closes his eyes briefly.

Kneecaps mouth works on something invisible before he glances at Jesse. “How long would you say the firefight lasted?’

Jesse counts the seconds in his brain. “Maybe a minute.”

Kneecap gestures to Mari. “And how long before we discovered the bug?”

“You found it in under a minute.”

“And how long did you and Cormac spend packing up before we left the range of the device?”

“At least twenty.” Jesse frowns. Was he trying to—

“So you’re saying that for about twenty-five minutes, that device was still connected to an encrypted port that had satellite access? And in that time could have deleted records and added a few; performed some cover up work?”

Mari tilts her head in consideration. “I couldn’t know if that were possible without first seeing the device. It’s probably still at the site.”

Colt raises an eyebrow. “Then I suppose you better go and get it.” He watches evenly as Mari hops to go fill up the car. She’s smart. When Colt says to jump, he doesn’t care for people who can’t deduce for themselves how high it needs to be. “Jesse, stay here. You go after we’re finished.”

Jesse nods. “Yes, sir.”

Kneecap’s got something like hope shining in his eyes. It dims as soon as he turns to look at Colt.

Colt’s sipping at something amber, his eyes trained on the level of his glass. “Justification after the fact is easy, ain’t it? The fact remains that you had no solid evidence to act as you did. Whether you’re right or not doesn’t matter.”

“If we find out he’s the mole, then I think it does matter,” Kneecap snaps.

Jesse stays rooted to the spot, silent and still.

Colt looks up from his drink. His gaze is a wave, an oncoming thunderstorm, something unstoppable and all-encompassing, rolling over everything in its path. “So, in summary, today you’ve provoked one of my oldest and most reliable dealers on a whim, thrown those under your command into a firefight without warning, and then didn’t even bother to hide the evidence for almost an hour after the fact. Is that all? Is that right?”

Kneecap opens and closes his jaw a few times before he mutters, “Yes.”

It’s not a question that expects any other answer. Kneecap will just have to take his failed attempt at regaining good favor all the way to the couch. Colt will find a way around this mess, Jesse is sure. He’s got a dozen backup plans at any given time. That’s how he’s survived so long. That’s how Deadlock’s survived so long. Kneecap will just have to grovel and beg for a few months but everyone grovels for Colt’s good favor at some point. Kneecap is a long time overdue. Things can return to normal. Normal minus Montoya.

“Ok.” Colt closes his eyes and tosses back the rest of his drink. He sets the empty glass on the table, sighing long and hard through his nose. Raising one hand to massage his temple, he murmurs, “Jesse, be a dear and shoot him.”

Jesse feels the floor sway beneath him.

Kneecap reels back, but Colt has his gun trained on him in a flash. There’s one shot. Then Kneecap is screaming on the ground, clutching at his leg.

“Montoya was behaving suspiciously,” Jesse defends, his heartbeat racing fast and hard in his ears. “He shot first.”

Colt watches Kneecap blubber for another second before his gaze rolls over to Jesse. “I wasn’t asking for more information. You should consider yourself lucky that it isn’t you lying there. You’re the one who killed ‘em.”

“But—“

“Jesse,” Colt interrupts, calm and controlled and everything Jesse _isn’t_. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Jesse swallows past the lump in his throat. His fingertips are numb, but he’s done this a thousand times.

_Draw._

Ignore the screaming.

_Pull back the hammer._

Tune out the words.

_Aim._

“Colt, please, I swear—“

_Fire._

And then Kneecap is silent. Jesse lowers his weapon. It’s heavier than it was a second ago. Jesse puts it back where it belongs.

Colt hums and rises from where he was sitting and crosses over to his alcohol cabinet. He steps over the body, careful to avoid getting blood on his shoes. “Good job, Jesse.” Colt selects a single malt scotch. He tops off two glasses and holds one out to him. “I won’t ever fault you for following orders,” he reassures, “so all is forgiven—but don’t ever pull anything like that again unless _I_ tell you to.”

Jesse takes the offered drink. He can’t look up. He can’t speak. He nods.

Colt lays a hand on his shoulder. “I believe you meant to say ‘sir, yes sir.’”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Perfect. That wasn’t so difficult, was it? Now be good and get rid of this before the smell sets in.”

Colt walks out.

Jesse considers his drink. It smells sharp and astringent like it could shred flesh from the inside out. Jesse raises it to his mouth and breathes in the fumes. It’s foul. He throws it back and it goes down smoothly before flaring up into a burn at the back of his throat. And then it’s not just his throat. It’s his chest, it’s his skin, it’s his eyes—everything is burning and Jesse hurls his empty glass at the wall. It shatters, loud and then silent.

Jesse stands there, his nails biting into his palms. That was stupid. That was pointless. Now it’s just another mess he has to clean up.

There’s a hand on his shoulder. There are words in his ears.

“I’ll help you,” Mari murmurs. “Let’s just get it done.”

And Jesse nods.

They haul the body to the same truck. Cormac is no longer inside, and neither are the weapons. Mari is the one who searches the body to find the keys. Jesse is the one who grabs the shovel. They bury it about ten miles away, four feet deep and proper. Jesse digs the entire thing. Mari offered to help, but Jesse declined. Mari’s not the one who caused the mess. She shouldn’t have to help him clean it up. After a while, she leaves Jesse to his privacy and says something about getting the encrypted port.

He listens to the engine fade until the only sound for miles is the scrape of metal against ground and lungs working at full capacity. He rips the dry ground open, throws his whole weight into the cracking the crust of the desert basin. It tears his hands to shreds—he’s got blisters popping up all over his palms. It’s still slow work. He’s never had to dig a grave all by his lonesome. It’s harder than he would have thought.

Kneecap gets no ceremony, no words. As soon as it’s deep enough, Jesse hauls himself out of the ground and rolls the body in with his foot. It crashes to the bottom and lays there.

Jesse rolls back on his heels and lights a cigarette. Kneecap was the one who gave him the habit, now that he thinks about it.

_Oh, come on, kid, ya gonna let a little coughing stop you?_

He stopped coughing a while back. Now the smoke just goes down smooth and kind, lingering on his tongue. The bliss rolls over him like an actual wave. The twitching in his hands subsides and the worst of his migraine dissolves.

When Mari finally rolls back into view, Jesse still hasn’t finished. It seemed harder to bury than it did to dig. It should be the opposite. Maybe it is for everyone else. Maybe Jesse is the only one who has to deal with this particular problem.

It’s stupid. He hates—hated Kneecap. He’s just being stupid. It’s another notch in his belt. It isn’t even the first gang member he’s killed. It’s nothing unusual. Kneecap simply went to far. No insult goes unanswered. Colt is the one who taught him that.

And, boy, had Kneecap done him an insult.

_Jesse, are you letting him talk to you like that? Go break his skull and he won’t mess with you again._

Mari helps him shovel the dirt in. Mari hands him lukewarm bottled water on the drive back and lets him stare outside the window without trying to talk. Mari’s got weariness older than canyons carved under her eyes, and she’s just as silent.

She reminds him of his mom.

That feels a little bit too fucked up for his tastes. Jesse turns his head away and leans it against the open window frame.

It’s almost a new moon—just a crescent in the sky, muted and small and dull in comparison to the stars. Jesse always liked watching the stars—they’re quiet company. He spent a lot of nights simply tracing constellations as a way to pass time when he couldn’t sleep. Stars don’t change much. They twist around given the seasons, will tilt on axis to the dance of the earth, but they don’t change.

“Colt said we’re packing up tonight,” Mari says when Jesse can finally see the lights of home base.

He blinks. “I didn’t hear that.” Colt swapped people around occasionally, but he rarely moved an entire base. Jesse had spent most of his time where he wasn’t on the move learning the tunnel systems and security protocols. If Colt was willing to abandon the gorge, then he must be feeling pretty cautious.

Of course, Kneecap is dead. Colt wouldn’t have done that if he weren’t furious.

Mari shrugs. “You were preoccupied. I’m just letting you know that you might want to sleep while you can.”

“I’ll live without sleep,” Jesse replies shortly. He’s not going to deal with tossing and turning tonight. If he’s lucky, he’ll be tired enough to pass out on the drive.

People are rowdy and in good cheer when they get back. Everyone has a beer in one hand and a pulse rifle in the other. Someone set up empty bottles and cans along the walls of the canyon.

“Jesse!” Cash roars, “Check this shit out!” He’s got some odd lens covering his left eye. He takes one last swig from his can and then tosses it away. He brings the rifle up to his shoulder and squeezes the trigger. A second later, the cans are gone. All of them.

Cheers. Applause.

Huh. Cash can’t hit the broad side of barn. That’s new.

“Looks like your deadeye is losin’ utility,” Cash drawls, shouldering the gun, high on something like superiority.

It’s a taunt that should get under his skin. Jesse shrugs and can’t really think of a decent reply to that. He should have a quip—that’s another reputation of his: Smart-ass.

But he’s tired and nicotine-slow to care much.

Mari tugs at his arm. He follows her like a dog to one of the cave entrances. “Show me how to get there.”

Jesse doesn’t argue. He flips on the lights—it’s too troublesome to remember the way through the dark—and leads the way through the labyrinth.

 

 “Stay here.”

“I can’t.” He’s gotta go clean up the floor in Colt’s office. He should have done that first. Blood is a bitch and a half to get out of linoleum.

Mari sighs and turns back to the monitor. “I’ll tell you if I learn anything.”

What good will that do? Either Kneecap was right or he was wrong. He’s still dead no matter what.

But Jesse merely nods and leaves. He might have to rethink the claustrophobia. He’s itching to run and sprint just so he can _breathe_ some actual air. But running would just mean he’s got to deal with his mess sooner. Even with a ghost-slow pace, time slips past him like the gentle tug of wind on clothing. He’s in Colt’s trailer before he knows it.

Jesse stares at the stains. Maybe he should just leave it. It’s not like Colt is going to be using it anymore. It would give Jesse more time to gather his belongings. More time to do something useful.

No.

Colt told him to clean it up. That’s what Jesse is going to do. Interpretation is dangerous—following the letter of an order is what gets you through the day. You do what you’re told, and everything will fall into place. That’s how it works. That’s how Jesse makes it work.

He’s scrubbing at red-white-black floors with off-brand laundry detergent and water, soap stinging at the raw blisters on his palms, when the lights go out. Jesse pauses, still kneeling, and tries to hear what’s happening outside.

Confusion.

Annoyance.

There’s no light streaming past the blinds. It looks like it isn’t just Colt’s trailer. It’s the whole gorge. The dark is thicker than ink and just as viscous. Jesse can’t make out anything, can’t even see his hands.

Colt hollers, “Cash, go check the generators.”

And then thunder rips through the canyon, a giant crack that has the ground shaking and glass rattling in the window panes.

Screaming.

Jesse stumbles to his feet and backs up against the wall. Glass crunches underneath his foot. He can see. Halogen and firelight are streaming through the window, throwing the walls of the room in stark gold relief. Jesse presses his back against the wall and tries to regain his footing.

The door slams open, and Jesse dives behind the cabinet to his left, drawing his gun.

“Jesse!” It’s Colt. He hurries to the back of the room and heaves the small couch away from the back wall. He pulls up a hinged section of the wall and waves at Jesse. “Don’t just stand there, kid! Move!”

Jesse darts forward and practically dives through the passage. He skids across the dusty ground and hears Colt land behind him. “What’s going on?” Jesse whispers, feeling his way through the dark to find a wall. He’s never been through this way. He didn’t even know it existed.

“Invasion,” Colt says quickly. “We need to move.”

Jesse follows blindly by the sound of his voice. “What about—“

“Don’t worry about them, Jesse. They have their job and we have ours.” He barely pauses, navigating the dark with expertise. This is a route he’s practiced then. “We know the area. We have the technology. We’re all awake and mobilized. Whoever wanted to try their luck tonight is about to be in for a surprise.”

Jesse nods. “Communications or vault?”

“We need to wipe the evidence.”

Jesse pauses for half a second, and his foot catches against an uneven rock. “But I thought—“

“Cut the chatter,” Colt hisses through the dark. “Just keep moving.”

Jesse steps up the pace and tries to silence his breathing. He hears the vaguest sound of light summer rain on tin roofs; gunfire loud and clear warped by turns and twists in the tunnel system. It clears into something sharper after Jesse crawls through about twelve feet of cramped earth, his hands stinging against sandstone and full of dust. He winces, but refuses to slow. Soon the route morphs into something familiar, and Jesse lets memory guide him through.

If power got cut by someone, then they would have to be in here. It’s too late to mess with hunting the intruder down for now, but communications is separate and completely independent. Colt is just being cautious, Jesse is sure. He’s a big fan of Murphey’s Law. Jesse’s confident that Deadlock will pull through—they’re awake and armed—but it never hurts to be careful.

Communications is empty. It’s also completely destroyed. Wires unplugged, systems disconnected, modems dead; the only light comes from flickering emergency backups that needed replacement three years ago. One server is untouched, and Colt rushes over to it. Looping in a chunk of raw command code is a primitive program to cycle signals made in the last ten seconds.

_if true then (cycle_f0rt.7) else then (cycle_s4nt.2) else then (int_shutdown)_

Ad infinitum loop.

Colt stares at the screen, his expression tight. He whirls away and pulls out his com, the one with a direct alpha override to all members with clearance. He stops short and stares at the screen for a moment. His mouth twists into a grimace and he puts his boot through a knocked over monitor. Jesse winces at the crunch of glass, but Colt doesn’t catch it. He raises the com to his mouth and murmurs quietly, “Enemy has the high ground. Scatter. Meet at Icehouse when safe.”

He wanted to meet _there?_

Jesse’s own comm buzzes in his back pocket with the message. He closes his eyes and forces his thoughts to be still. It’s too dangerous to risk going topside—the trucks built to stand combat were still stationed in New Mexico. Which means the safest route is the one Jesse hates the most. The one he’s only ever had to use once. “Underground?”

Colt turns and nods once. “We have to backtrack.” He wades through the destroyed servers and heaves one away from the doors of a metal cabinet. He scours through it and emerges with three fusee flares. Main tunnel systems would have emergency backups, but those could easily be shot. The dark is an advantage sometimes, but right now the enemy is prepared and well organized—if they have night vision goggles, the darkness is just a handicap. Handing a flare over to Jesse, he orders, “Take point and take no prisoners. I’ll follow after I recover the drive files we need.”

This is something Jesse can do. This is practically Jesse’s bread and butter.  He ignites the flare, waiting for his eyes to readjust before he creeps outside the entrance and he tosses it down the corridor. He silences his steps and darts quickly around corners, stopping every few seconds to listen for footsteps. It’s almost an algorithm for him: Reposition, clear the area in front of him, reposition again. Keep the red light moving forward, keep it away from him as much as possible. Clear all the way back into the main tunnel system.

His algorithm short-circuits when he hears footsteps. Jesse freezes, his back pressed into the cold stone, and concentrates. The gun-fire is closer, scattered, on-going. But it isn’t loud enough to be in the caves yet. It isn’t loud enough to hide the sounds of hurried movement. Jesse exhales silently, and draws back the hammer on his gun.

The flare is another ten feet ahead of him, throwing red light up against the walls of the cave. The shadows around him shift, lengthening and twisting: Someone picked up the flare. Jesse shifts forward, his movements slow and even. Flesh and ribs collide hollowly with stone—the light is almost entirely muted, and Jesse counts his heartbeats and slides a flash bang from his belt, slow as honey, waiting for the perfect time to strike.

“Deadlock?”

Mari. It’s just Mari. Thank God.

Jesse breathes a sigh of relief and peeks out around the corner. “Is it just you?”

“Jesse,” Mari says in recognition. She waves him forward into an enclave. “Cash ordered us to split—he’s trying to flank the enemy with a couple others. I took off this way after the diner was overrun.”

Overrun. Fuck. Jesse grimaces and shuts his eyes. That wouldn’t be allowed without quite a few fatalities. How many people were going to need funerals by the time dawn struck? Jesse shakes away that train of thought. More important things to focus on. “I’m with Colt. He’s securing the hard drives in the back—after that we have a way out. We need to clear a little further back.”

“I’ll take point,” Mari says. "But I just came this way, so we should be clear. I saw something about Icehouse; where is that?”

Jesse keeps forgetting how new she is. “It’s a safe house. We only use it in emergencies, but—“

Movement behind him. Jesse pivots, and Colt catches the barrel of his gun, jerking it to the side. Jesse’s eyes widen. Colt raises an eyebrow and chastises, “What did I tell you about chatter?” His voice is slightly muffled by the bandana covering the lower half of his face.

Jesse stares down at his boots, a flare of embarrassment running through him. “Sorry.”

Colt scoffs. “You both should know better.”

“Is that smoke?” Mari says suddenly.

Jesse glances up. Curling around at the ceiling is wisps of vapor. Jesse steps back and fumbles with the bandana he has wrapped around the brim of his hat. He unfurls it and knots the corners at the back of neck; it’s not the best of gas masks, but it should do something.

“Indeed it is,” Colt replies. “I believe it would be best if we kept moving. Gasoline fumes are awful on the lungs.”

Jesse nods quickly and steps forward. He feels phantom heat pricking at his back—underground and all its stale air is sounding pretty pleasant in comparison to actual asphyxiation. Colt’s literally burning this base, Jesse realizes as he finally clears back to the route they needed. They aren’t coming back. Jesse’s books, his clothes, his bed; he’s not seeing them again. The thought sits uncomfortably in his stomach. He’s leaving behind everything except his gun and the clothes on his back.

The sharp snap of gunfire ricochets off the walls. Less than forty feet away, a more or less straight shot towards the mouth of this particular entrance. Jesse sets his jaw and checks his gear—nothing like what he should have; twelve rounds plus six in the chamber. He’s got two flash grenades on his belt. That’s it. That’s practically nothing. That’s not going to sustain long enough in any sort of fight.

“Mari, watch our six,” Colt orders. “We need to step up the pace.”

Jesse takes the hint and scoops up the flare, forcing himself into a sort of loping jog even though exhaustion is turning his legs to lead. There’s nothing like a fire-fight where you’re packing no fire to give you a second wind. They move quickly, Jesse picking his way through the tunnels without hesitation.

When they run across Cash, he’s leaning heavily on one of his lieutenants with blood gushing out of a wound on his thigh. He’s not dead, which means it missed an artery and cleanly exited by some fucking miracle. Flanking must not have gone well.

“Well,” Cash heaves for a breath, “Imagine seeing y’all down here.”

Colt glances towards the mouth of the tunnel. “Jesse, watch our tail. Marco, carry Cash. We don’t have time for this.”

Cash is promptly heaved over Marco’s shoulder. He curses and yelps, before biting down on the pain. “I sent about four people ahead,” he grits out. “Transport will be ready when we get there.”

“At this rate we aren’t going to get there at all.”

Jesse falls behind with Mari. He’s breathing hard enough that he almost doesn’t hear it.

Nothing.

No gunfire. No shouting. No screaming.

But plenty of footsteps.

Mari tries to block him, throwing up an arm to keep him from peeking around the cave walls, but he ducks under and hurls a flash grenade around the corner. He can’t get an accurate count of the bodies before he’s yanked back by the scruff of his shirt, but it’s more than four. He covers his ears and squeezes his eyes shut, muffling the worst of the blast—and then fires down the corridor. One bullet hits stone, but one finds mark in the middle of someone’s shoulder. Dead. That’s an artery shot, Jesse is positive.

“Jesse!” Colt yells from down the hall. “Stall! Retreat in five.” He tosses another unlit flare, but Jesse dosen’t bother with it. It’d just be a distraction or a give away and he needs neither of these things right now.

Jesse peeks around again, and people are far too close for his comfort—three shots, three bodies, a whole lotta yelling and hollering and returned fire that strikes where his head had been just a second ago. “Swap,” he yells to Mari. He’s still got one bullet in the chamber—but right now in closed quarters, Mari’s .45 is the better choice.

He moves back and glances over his shoulder. Mari’s got her gun raised, the line of her shoulders relaxed and easy. She breathes in and fires off three quick rounds, perfect military form cutting a striking outline in the flare-fire dark.

There’s one problem, though.

She’s facing the wrong way.

Colt crashes to the floor just out of sight around the corner, Mari's shots striking center mass with perfect precision. She steps further forward and Jesse isn’t thinking as he flies forward. He’s a hurricane of strikes, and it’s just fast enough to knock the gun out and away. She sinks an elbow into his solar plexus and follows up with a brutal jab at his face that busts the cartilage in his nose like a particularly bloody pinata. She twists to lunge for her gun.

“Don’t even think about it,” Jesse snarls, gun raised and aimed at the back of her head. She freezes, still crouched down. It’s impossible to miss at this range, even with his sight blurred and his head ringing. He knows it. Mari knows it. And they both know there’s only one reason he hasn’t already fired.

Colt told him to stall.

Colt, who Jesse can hear yelling orders, is still kicking. And that means Jesse still has a job to do. The decision is made before he can even think it through. He snatches the .45 from the floor and backs up down the corridor, forcing Mari to follow. There's an off-shoot tunnel somewhere, and the people advancing will follow Jesse like the pied piper if he plays his cards right. It's just a matter of timing.

 “If you surrender, you’ll get a better deal.”

Mari sounds far too calm for a woman with a gun to her head. Jesse takes her serenity to mean that her betrayal wasn't a heat of the moment decision. It was a calculated break in cover, and the only thing that has Jesse confused is why she didn't kill him first.

“Well that’s just got to be a shame,” he pants, spitting blood from his mouth. “I love better deals.”

Surrender isn’t an option. It never has been. There is, however, the chance to kill everyone here. Using Deadeye on anything more than six people is an invitation to melt his brain until it starts leaking from his nose, but Jesse likes that idea a lot better than giving up. Lot less ‘prison’ to factor into the equation. He'll just have to stumble back and hope he doesn't run into anything else, because this stunt is going to make him a sitting duck.

Jesse dances around the corners, retreating just fast enough to tease and taunt the tactical ops chasing him down. He uses the retreat as an opportunity to get a feel for the .45. It's an affront to art of gun slinging, but it has eight rounds in the chamber and that's what Jesse needs. And a few dozen feet later, when he gets to where he needs to be, Mari outlives her utility as a meat shield.

“I’d say I’m sorry,” Jesse cocks the hammer of his revolver with his left hand, keeping the .45 trained down where his targets would be filing in, “but I really ain’t.” Apologies are cheap. Lives are cheaper. At the end of the day, sometimes you get saddled with the role of executor and you just have to roll with it.

“You really don’t want to pull that trigger,” Mari murmurs.

It’s the truth. But it rarely matters what Jesse wants and right now is no exception.

He fires. Nothing comes out. The click is lost to the air.

Empty.

There’s no bullet in the chamber. His sixth bullet is sitting in Kneecap's skull.

In the end, it’s the split second hesitation that puts him on the ground. Mari lunges forward and wrenches his wrist someway it definitely _isn't_ supposed to go, and pain is bad enough that he drops the .45. She spins around, Jesse's arm still in an iron grip, and fucking _flings_ him over her shoulder. He goes flying, his head cracking against stone, skidding across the ground for what feels like a whole twenty feet. The collision knocks the other (useless, empty) gun out of his hand and the hat off of his head.

When he skids to a stop, he only lets the rush of dizziness and pain stall him for half a second. He manages to get his knees underneath him. That's about all he can do before a boot comes down on his back and knocks him right back into the dirt.

“Oh no, you stay put.”

If the first tumble didn't knock the breath from him, that kick finished the job. All he can do for a moment is gasp for breath like a fish on land.

“He took us the wrong way,” Mari says rapidly.

Jesse does the calculations in his head. After all this, he bought three minutes. Four if he’s lucky, and when the fuck is he ever lucky?

He’s caught. He’s done for. Dead.

“There should be a blood trail,” Mari continues.

Jesse twists his head and counts six sets of combat boots, not including the one currently digging into his kidneys. 

“Bag this one and hunt them down,” The voice above him orders. "Morales, we'll talk about this later."

"Understood," Mari acknowledges.

That's when it truly hits Jesse.

He's caught. He's done for. He's got no gun or muscle or means of escape. He's, for lack of a better word, completely fucked.

_Don't put desperate people in a corner, Jesse. When they got no hope, they get deadly._

And that means he has the freedom to do something _really_ fucking stupid.

Before the people around him can restrain him, he snatches his last flashbang from the lining on his vest. He twists his head away, scrunches his eyes shut, hears someone yell in alarm.

“Grena—“ 

Jesse hurls the grenade up into the air.

Everything goes white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kinda rewrote the ending for more clarity. Also, im considering reposting this as a seperate (but related) work because I understand OC's can be off putting when starting a new story.


	2. Crux

Jesse’s mouth is cotton dry and tastes like scorpion bed. His brain is just as dusty—his dreams dragging at him like sticker burrs. Slowly, he pulls away from sleep, disperses the chaos of red earth and clouds of fiber optic cables. Dreams like these aren’t worth the time. Dreams like these leave you more tired than when you went to sleep in the first place. He groans and rolls his neck, trying to work the crick out of it. His face doesn’t like the motion, does not like it one little bit. His nose rings with pain, dull radiating waves that make him grit his jaw just to ride them out. Coughing is all it takes to rattle his skull. He shifts, and metal digs into his wrists.

Ah. So it’s that kind of bullshit.  
  
He tests the cuffs. Not an inch of give. He quits when the bite of metal gets too sharp to ignore. Jesse winces and blinks away the sleep from his eyes. It aches, but it’s no worse than a hangover. Actually, that’s exactly what it is. He’s hungover and handcuffed to a chair. That’s just unfair. The broken nose—and, boy, is that motherfucker _broken_ —is just the cherry on top of a pile of awful.  
  
He squints and tries to make out where he is—somewhere dim, somewhere small, somewhere that’s cold. Somewhere that is definitely not where he needs to be. He jerks his arms again. Even if he can’t get out, the sting grounds him, keeps from doing something stupid. He’s not sure who Mari is working for, but it seems they aren’t the nice type.  
  
Jesse’s fine with that. He’s not the nicest person either. He knows what to do in situations like these.  
  
_Say nothing._  
  
He’s here because they, whoever the hell ‘they’ is, wants something. And it’s his job to make sure that they never get it. If they think he’s an easy target, he’s going to make sure they realize their mistake.  
  
When a door opens behind him, Jesse sits straight and calm and still. He can feel eyes trained on him. Whoever’s there is quiet; it’s only the slightest brush of clothing against skin, the minute vibration of footsteps on ground that gives away their position.  
  
The lights flare up, and Jesse winces.  
  
“Headache?” A man settles into a chair across from him, metal legs scraping the cement. “Yeah, that tends to happen when you nearly blowout your eardrums with a stun grenade.”  
  
Jesse pries open an eyelid. The light aches, but he’d rather see who he’s dealing with than go in blind.  
  
Facial scarring. Blank expression. Dressed plainly in dark colors with hands that spoke of a whole lotta knuckles split over fights.  
  
He looks exactly like the type of person Jesse likes to piss off.  
  
“Oh,” Jesse hears himself quip, “and here I was thinkin’ it was all the whiskey I drank.”  
  
His voice is pathetically scratchy. Not at all like the casual drawl he had been goin’ for. He coughs and tries to clear away the dryness at the back of his throat. It’s a bit of a lost battle, and all he gets for his effort is a wash of iron over the back of his tongue and another bout of headache.  
  
“You sound a bit thirsty.”  
  
No shit.  
  
“You want water? Coffee?”  
  
Jesse scoffs and turns his head. It’s about the closest he can get to flipping off his interrogator while his hands are bound. Well, he can do that too, but it’s a bit pointless if no one can see it. Jesse knows dehydration. He also knows traps. He’ll take the thirst, even if his throat feels like tumble weed crawled down there and took root while he was out.  
  
When Jesse doesn’t answer, the man shrugs. “You really want to cooperate while I’m in a good mood, Jesse, I promise.  
  
Hah. That’s a funny thought.  
  
At his silence and stony stare, the man backtracks seamlessly and comments, “You’re seventeen, aren’t you? You probably shouldn’t drink coffee then. It’ll stunt your growth.”  
  
So they know his name and age. The name bit is easy—Mari sold him out. The age is trickier. Jesse doesn’t flaunt it, which means they probably got that info from an older member. Not Colt. Colt got away.  
  
He got away, right?  
  
Jesse digs his nails into his palm. Focus. They wouldn’t be talking to him if they had all the puzzle pieces. They wouldn’t be talking to him if they had bigger fish to fry. He’s just gotta focus and figure out what they want—and that will tell him a lot about who they are.  
  
And so the questions start, spaced out between minutes of silence on Jesse’s part. Simple _hows_ and _whats_ and _whys_ that Jesse sure as hell isn’t going to bother answering. His lack of response gets a few narrowed eyes, a few annoyed sighs, but the man across from him sticks to what appears to be a very generic and superficial script for the better part of an hour.  
  
Jesse’s completely fine with this song and dance. They sent him the good cop? Jesse has no problem with dancing circles for as long as it takes. He can keep it up all day.  
  
A Deadlock doesn’t talk. That’s law—that’s the tenth commandment. There ain’t no place on earth you can hide if you sell out the gang. There ain’t nowhere in the world to go, because setting an example is important and everybody must be made an example of. Jesse remembers vividly the day Colt made his fair share of phone calls, made his fair share of promises— _“and of course your daughter will be taken care of, but only if you make it bloody”_ —and three days later Jesse was watchin’ the news with everyone else and an old member who had been busted three or four months previous had to be _scrubbed_ outta the jailhouse floor.  
  
_Remember, kid, a Deadlock dosen’t talk—_  
  
But there’s nothing mentioned about banter.  
  
“You growing inclined to talk instead of sitting there like a very ugly statue?”  
  
“I’m growin’ inclined to ask if the beanie is to hide some unfortunate bald spot.”  
  
There isn’t anything to mark the passage of time in the room, but Jesse’s internal clock is pretty damn accurate by necessity of the job. He’s spent the better part of an hour and change tuning out all the questions before his boredom manages to get the better of him. Beanie with all his blank-faced glory doesn’t falter at any of the sarcasm Jesse throws his way, but as time drags along Jesse is rewarded by some eye narrowing, some badly hidden scowls, some long sighs that sound nothing short of _exhausted._ There isn’t even a lie to be found in Jesse’s words, but he had no doubt that he would move onto that eventually.  
  
Right now, he’s just passing the time a bit faster for himself and a hell of a lot slower for his conversation partner.  
  
“When did you join Deadlock?”  
  
“When dinosaurs ruled the earth.”  
  
Once, when Jesse was ten, police had visited the dinky motel he’d been holed up in to talk to his mom about a crime that happened nearby. The cops didn’t know about Jesse and his mom didn’t want that to change, so he got a front row audience (to the audio if not the visual) of their no ma’am, nothing serious, we just need to chat as he hid silently in the bathroom. The two started calmly enough, and then outta nowhere came in like a hurricane, accusations, lots ‘a implications that Jesse didn’t understand beyond the fact that they were bad, and a whole ocean of pressing questions.  
  
“If you were just at home, where did that broken nose come from, huh?”  
  
His mom didn’t flinch.  
  
“My ex and I had a run in. Was just settlin’ down to file a complaint.”  
  
His mom didn’t have an ex. She certainly wasn’t about to file a complaint.  
  
Jesse may have gotten a whole lot of practice and pointers on the fine art of bullshitting people while running with Deadlock, but he’d learned from his mom. Keep it simple. Keep it short. As long as you aren’t in a cell, your lie only has to survive as long as it takes to high-tail it out.  
  
And if you’re in a cell, well—  
  
His mom never had advice for that one.  
  
Jesse figures that gives him free reign to just be as annoying as possible.  
  
“Your name?”  
  
“You know it.”                                                                                                            
  
“Where did—“  
  
“No clue.”  
  
“What’s the icehouse?”  
  
Jesse swallows. It does pretty much nothing to alleviate his thirst. “Well, you see, it’s a house where ya store ice.”  
  
He gets a weary glare, and it’s amusing enough to make him continue. “I understand how that could be difficult to deduce from the name, I personally voted to call it something more opaque—”  
  
They haven’t shot him yet. No threats either. A lot of questions, sure, but no violence. That’s more surprising than anything. Just unending hours of questions, of pointed comments designed to puncture holes in bravado. It’s too bad for his interrogator that Jesse has been at this too long to fall for it.  
  
It’s creeping around to three hours when the man across from him stands without warning and leaves just as quickly as he walked in.  
  
The victory makes Jesse grin. “Was it something I said?” he mocks.  
  
His answer is the door slamming shut behind him.  
  
Beanie returns sometime after that, knocking Jesse from the fragile sleep he managed to lull into while alone. Questioning starts over again, with a few curve balls thrown in to keep Jesse on his toes. Someone snitched, that much is obvious, but Jesse can tell it isn’t anyone important. The names and locations thrown in his face as some cheap attempt at intimidation are tactically useless.  
  
Jesse lets his smile imply just as much.  
  
But as the hours drone on by, the novelty of the situation wears off. Jesse can only keep up the comedy show for so long before the effort out weighs the payout. His spine and elbows had started protesting his restraints some time ago. The bright lights did nothing pleasant on his blunt-force trauma induced migraine and with out his hat he had no way to deal with it. His throat burned for water, but his pride burned hotter at the thought of asking these bastards for anything.  
  
So, yeah, for some reason the joking mood left and Jesse transitioned into lying like the used gun salesman he was born to be.  
  
“So that’s the story you’re selling? You’re just a newbie? Just at the wrong place, wrong time?”  
  
Jesse blinks, stretching his silence out until it’s about to break. Just when Beanie opens his mouth, eyes narrowed and expression promising hell, Jesse replies, “Yep.” He pops the “P” like chewing gum, and the satisfaction he gets at watching Beanie have to gather his patience is enough to make this line of conversation worth the effort.  
  
“You know how to handle a firefight.” That’s a dangerous tangent to explore. Jesse shifts his gave over to the mirror to the left.  “I’d consider that an unusual skill for a new member.”  
  
Jesse shrugs his shoulders, and that motion sets off a line of cracks up and down his spine. “Plenty of guns in the world. It doesn’t take much to learn how to use ‘em.” That right there is a lie Jesse wouldn’t believe in his goddamn dreams, but the point isn’t to be believed. Mari might have heard shit about him and Jesse had no doubt she’s already reported everything she knows, but it doesn’t matter.  
  
The man stares at him with venom that Jesse can see reflected in the mirror. “You don’t expect me to buy this shit.”  
  
Jesse turns his gaze back over to some point to the left of the man. He can’t help the small grin on his face, but he knows making eye contact while feeling this smug is just an invitation to get punched in the nose. Normally he wouldn’t care, but with his arms bound and his cartilage wrecked, the pain would be enough to cut down on his good mood.  
  
“I don’t have any clue as to what you would be implying,” Jesse drawls.  
  
“Allow me to enlighten you.” Paper rustles. Jesse sneaks a peek out of the corner of his eye. His interrogator is sorting through some sort of file. He selects a page and slides it across the table. It’s from surveillance cam feed—grainy and pixilated on high gloss paper. God, he’s stuck in the middle fucking ages. Who bothers with printing paper anymore?  
  
“Any idea who these people are?”  
  
Jesse stares at it for a moment. So that’s how they’re gonna play it. Fine. He can play that game. He settles back in his chair in as comfortable a slouch he can manage with his arms bound and meets the other man’s eyes. “Nope,” he drawls, “not a clue.”  
  
“Well, the man on the left is Connor Harris. I think he prefers—preferred—to be called ‘Kneecap.’ The one on the right is you.”  
  
Jesse doesn’t look down at it. “I don’t see the resemblance.”  
  
“I suppose the hat is a bit obstructive,” the Beanie graciously allows. He slides another photograph over. It’s the same grainy quality, but Jesse recognizes Deadlock Gorge without any difficulty. “This is you again. The man you’re walking behind is James Colt, presumed alias of—”  
  
Jesse tonelessly cuts in with a dull, “Never heard of ‘em.”  
  
“Really? That’s a bit odd. We have hours of recorded footage of you three.”  
  
Jesse decides right then and there that the man across from him works for something even more meticulous than Colt. That amount of surveillance is just banal and unnecessary. He almost says as much, but there lies a tricky road to navigate. He isn‘t about to give these people anything that could amount to a confession. In the space of a second, Jesse smoothly backtracks into denial. “Must not be me,” He replies. “I’ve never met these people before.”  
  
“Here.” Beanie slides over another photograph, casual and almost lazy. “Maybe this’ll trigger your memory.”  
  
Jesse forces his jaw to relax. He can’t do anything about the fire burning at the base of his skull, and so he remains silent. That right there is a dirty fucking move and if Jesse weren’t so _pissed,_ he’d be almost impressed.  
  
“That’s your buddy Kneecap,” the man explains needlessly. He examines Jesse’s expression for a moment and adds, “Ignore the bullet hole and dust—these pictures were snapped after we exhumed him from a shallow grave a few miles away from where we found you. It’s probably not the nicest portrait shot.”  
  
_Fucking_ Mari.  
  
“What a coincidence,” Jesse says. Not his wittiest reply, but it would have to do. His voice is glass under pressure, a syllable away from splintering. He’s not going to push it luck and have it shatter.  
  
“Indeed.” The man settles back into his chair and raises an eyebrow. “So I think we’ve established that you know some pretty bad people. Want to tell me about them?”  
  
Jesse wants to tell him where he can shove his pictures, but before he can say as much, the man interrupts him. Guess the look on his face already answered that question. “That’s fine. We can talk more about you.”  
  
“Me?” Jesse feigns, his voice flatter than the desert. “Well, if you want to know the truth, I’m just a good ol’ country boy. Love long walks on the beach and romantic candle-lit dinners. I’m great with pets.” Better with guns. Jesse wishes he had his own so he could blow the man’s head off.  
  
Beanie chuckles, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. That anger that made Jesse let his guard down is nowhere to be seen. “Oh, so you like jokes. That’s great; I actually have a few good ones.”  
  
 “I’d love to hear ‘em,” Jesse says, his lip curling. He knows he’s being baited. He doesn’t care.  
  
“Knock-knock.”  
  
 “Who’s there?”  
  
 “Ten counts of murder in the first, twenty three of murder in the second, armed robbery, assault, assault with a deadly weapon, grand larceny, all the counts of which are too high to bother naming—and that’s just the things we can prove with minimal effort. There’s quite a bit more where that came from, I’m sure.”  
  
Jesse digs his thumb into one of the nastier blisters on his left hand. “I’ll give it a two out of ten,” he retorts. “No substance. Not much style.”  
  
“I think it’s pretty hilarious.” The man tosses a few various pictures of bodies under the glare of floodlights. Montoya looks a lot paler, but then again he was a body shot. Messy. Bloody. Blood loss continuing all the way into post-mortem. “What’s funny to me is that your felony murder charges jumped by six people in less than five seconds.”  
  
Jesse narrows his eyes. “You must have a shit sense of humor, then.” The man across from him grins wryly, but he doesn’t reply. The expectant stare weighs like an itch on the back of his neck, and before Jesse can do something smart like shut up, he’s muttering, “And that was self-defense.”  
  
“Not the way we’re packaging it.”  
  
And that’s what tips Jesse off to the fact that he’s slipping. He’s spent hours in the company of this man, and yet he’s made no progress in figuring out who the hell they fucking are. That right there might as well be a cardinal sin. That right there is going to change before Jesse so much as opens his mouth again. He scours Beanie’s face and clothes, trying to pick out an affiliation. There’s pretty much nothing. He’s got no colors that Jesse recognizes, and the hoodie rules out most things in a professional capacity.  
  
They’re something organized. Or at least, something preoccupied with the letter of the law. Law enforcement is unlikely—he didn’t get the best look at their attackers, but the lines of their equipment was nothing like SWAT. Possibly military, but Colt had contacts and informants in almost every single branch. The US armed forces didn’t _sneeze_ without Colt knowing. The CIA is in the same, leaky, leaky boat. The FBI was a joke.  
  
That either meant some specialized task force was operating separate from—  
  
“Focus, kid.”  
  
“I ain’t a fucking kid,” Jesse snaps on reflex.  
  
“Oh, so you’re older than seventeen then?” That is some fine aged sarcasm right there. That spirit must have been bottled for at least a century to get so potent.  
  
“Just ‘cause I’m seventeen don’t make me a child.” If some gang member wants to heckle him about his age, Jesse doesn’t give a shit. He’s heard it too much for too long to bother with anger. Some days, the name even feels friendly. Feels like a badge of pride.  
  
_Hey, Montoya, let me introduce you to the new kid._  
  
_I didn’t you were in the business of recruiting children._  
  
_I’m in the business of recruiting anyone who can shoot like Jesse._  
  
But this man ain’t his gang and Jesse ain’t his kid.  
  
The man tilts his head, his eyes narrowed. “So that means you joined Deadlock when you were what? Fifteen?”  
  
Jesse’s mouth twists. So at least they don’t know everything. His face is stone when he drawls, “Well, that just ain’t any of your business, now is it?”  
  
“Actually,” the man corrects, regaining that previous unfazed professionalism, “It is. You see, the good ol’ US of A has gotten pretty tired of Deadlock. They gave me the freedom to act however necessary to wipe you out. So anything about you is my business.”  
  
So it’s a contractor. Duly noted.  
  
“Seeing how I’m not going to say anything,” Jesse shoots back, “I reckon—“  
  
“You’re right.” The man sighs in mock disappointment, shaking his head. “Your buddy Cormac is being a lot more helpful.”  
  
Jesse snorts, his lips twitching into a grin. It isn’t even hollow or sour—it’s genuine amusement. If blood flies from his nose with the motion, if it brings another wave of dull pain, well that right there is just a price he’s glad to pay.  
  
Cormac? That’s the worst threat they got?  
  
“You think that lackey knows anything?” Jesse asks, curious. Well, the sell out did have a tongue good for business. He probably bent over backwards to tell them anything he wanted to hear.  
  
“You think he’s the only one we got who’s going to sing like a canary?”  
  
Jesse leans forward. “I _think_ you’re full of shit. If you had anyone eager to spill their guts, you wouldn’t be here bothering with me.”  
  
“You give yourself so little credit, Jesse.” The man props his head up against his hand. There isn’t an ounce of rigidity left in his frame—he’s lounging in his chair like a particularly well fed snake, and his voice comes across as casual. Friendly. Full of temptation. “We know you have a lot of information that could help us out. Why don’t you help yourself while you’re at it?”  
  
Jesse takes a second too long to respond before reality catches up with him. He narrows his eyes. “Because I ain’t a fucking sell-out.”  
  
The man’s stare loses the feigned laziness and gains the calculating edge that Jesse glimpsed before. The x-ray treatment lasts long enough to make Jesse look away. There’s too much new information rolling in his head that he needs to process. He isn’t about to get caught up in some staring contest that he has no chance of winning, not when he needs to keep his priorities straight. His pride had a limit, and that limit was usually very respectful of what his gut instinct told him.  
  
And right now, his intuition prickled at the back of his neck, warning him to watch his words.  
  
The path of least resistance never stopped being an option, so Jesse retreats into his familiar thorny silence.  
  
A minute and forever later, the man sighs ever-so-slightly through his nose. “Then I think we’re done for now.” He stands without bothering collect his photographs, leaving them scattered over the table in front of Jesse.  
  
The concession feels less like a victory than it should.  
  
As Beanie passes by, Jesse mutters, “Give my regards to the choir.” Intuition or no, Jesse still had that overwhelming childish need to have the last word.  
  
Beanie takes it in stride and quips, “Sure thing, kid.”  
  
Jesse glares at the mirror, shooting daggers right into the man’s retreating back.

* * *

  
Jesse enjoys whistling. When you’re all by your lonesome, and you get told to hold down the payload for however many hours it needs to be done, reading isn’t an option and cloud watching won’t fly if there ain’t any clouds to be seen. Music is about the best thing you can ask for. He isn’t a singer. Smoke has frayed his chords a bit too much to sound like anything more pleasant than a garbage disposal, but damn if he can’t carry a tune.  
  
In the mind numbingly boring hours between these little “conversations,” Jesse’s had the chance to go over all his favorites. Twice. He’s gotten pretty great at mimicking the guitar solos. The task takes some of the tension out of his shoulders, helps him slip into that slightly hazy space in reality where nothing feels pressing. A bit like the trance of deadeye, except there isn’t that overwhelming need to kill everything in front of him.  
  
“Bon Jovi? Really?”  
  
Jesse falters for half a heartbeat, but he picks up the tune again quick enough. Despite being built like a linebacker, his interrogator is damn near silent—But Jesse isn’t one to let a little interruption knock him out of his music. He was just finishing up any way. “One of the greats,” Jesse replies a few moments after his finale.  
  
“That music was old as dirt when I was born.”  
  
“Some things get better with age.” Whiskey. Family stories. Music. The list goes on.  
  
The man settles into his chair and raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t bother to continue that oh so productive line of discussion. “Your friends who we brought in alive are all going off to their drastically improved prison sentences.”  
  
That should dig under his skin. Maybe it does. As it is, Jesse is full of emotional Novocain, so Beanie is going to have to try a bit harder than that to get a reaction. “I wish them the best for the rest of their lives.”  
  
Colt will probably have them all killed before the end of the year is out.  
  
“That’s generous of you,” Beanie says, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes Jesse look up. He looks like he’s slept about as much as Jesse, but his eyes are still sharp and aware. “I’m curious,” he admits after a few seconds  
  
Jesse tilts his head. “Curious as to what?”  
  
“Why the hell you’re so stoked to spend the rest of your life in prison.”  
  
And it looks like there’s no rest to the wicked. “I’ve heard they have good dental.”  
  
Beanie laughs, short and caustic. “Not where you’re headed.”  
  
Jesse hums. This is a bit more aggressive than Beanie’s previous initiations. He should probably pull his head out of his ass and remind himself what he’s doing. Should. He probably won’t. That requires a lot more thought. It’s easier to deal with reality on autopilot at this point. It leads to the same place either way. “That’s a shame,” Jesse replies, scrutinizing the fainter scars lining the man’s face. There’s quite a few that are hairline-fine and only visible if you squint. It’s an interesting visual, sure enough. Very distracting.  
  
The man slams his hands flat against the table and the sound is enough to make a dent in the little bit of serenity Jesse had managed to build while alone. Beanie is glaring at him somethin’ fierce. Jesse tries to figure out where the hell his pupil is in that entire dark iris, but it’s a lost cause. “I don’t think you understand the extent of your sentence here. I thought I was making it obvious, but let me spell it out for you—“  
  
“Life in prison,” Jesse sighs, his words nothing but factual. “Probably super-max with no chance of parole or appeal.” He rolls his neck and shuts his eyes, staving off the flutter of unease that brings. That type of feeling doesn’t belong here.  
  
“And is that what you want?”  
  
What a stupid question. Jesse figures it deserves a stupid answer. “Yep. Sounds lovely.”  
  
Beanie rubs at his eyes and mutters something along the lines of “un-fucking-believable” under his breath.  
  
The exhaustion surrounding that statement is enough to make Jesse snort. Out comes a blood clot, in comes a ringer of pain that can’t really reach Jesse. The nosebleed that Jesse was unconscious for the first time around resumes sluggishly, and he sniffs. “If you’re supposed to be the bad cop, you’re doin’ an awfully bad job.”  
  
When Beanie moves his hands from his eyes, he’s back in business mode. Professional. Collected. Very sarcastic. “I guess I’ve cleaned up too much trash. I’m feeling the bliss of a job well done.”  
  
Jesse spits blood and bares his teeth in something amused and savage. “You missed a spot.”  
  
The man tilts his head for a moment, a question on his lips before his eyes light up in understanding. “You mean your buddy Colt,” He says slowly, the faintest hint of disbelief coloring his words. “You think your little trick _actually_ let him get away.” He laughs.  
  
Jesse stills. His stomach falls somewhere down to about knee-level.  
  
“That’s cute.”  
  
The sudden hollow in his chest makes Jesse drop his gaze, just to check ‘n make sure no one gutted him while he was preoccupied and left him with his intestines strewn across his lap. One glance is all it takes, but he takes two more just in case he missed something the first time—but nada, there’s his body, whole and unslit. There’s his body, not lying dead with his blood staining the sand. Blood drips from the tip of his nose and sinks into his jeans.  
  
There’s him. Alive.  
  
Beanie continues flippantly, “It’s a damn shame we couldn’t bring him in sans the body bag, but, hey, sometimes you can’t have everything.”  
  
And for once, Jesse has nothing to say. There’s no point in saying anything. Colt was the one who held everything together—the businesses, the contacts, the informants. Without someone to hold it all together, Deadlock would just dissolve and crumble until it was no more organized than _fucking Los Muertos._ His silence or lack thereof won’t change that.  
  
_Oh, Jesse, you’re blessed with my good favor—_  
  
Colt is dead.  
  
_Don’t waste it being stupid._  
  
 Jesse looks up—there’s a popping sound right in front of his nose. It’s his interrogator’s snapping fingers. His eyes are scouring over every inch of Jesse’s face, and the half second of eye contact hits Jesse like a sucker punch.  
  
“Since it appears that got your attention, _deadeye_ , let’s talk logistics.”  
  
Jesse would prefer not—  
  
“You’re looking at a guaranteed life sentence _at least_ , parole not likely unless you get a bleeding heart judge, and I’m fairly certain I pick the judge. Obstruction of justice is real bitch to deal with, so forgive me if I don’t do you any favors on that front.”  
  
“I’m not—“  
  
“Scared? Impressed? You expect me to believe you are just content to go and rot behind bars? That’s the story we’re going with here?” The man leans in across the table and Jesse is alarmed enough to flinch back but he has nowhere to go. Dark eyes pluck that little reaction out of the air, and the stare Jesse’s pinned with is intense enough to melt metal.  
  
Rot is a strong word. It leaves a bad taste at the back of Jesse’s throat. “I’m—“  
  
“I’m not buying it.” His interrogator barely slows down, rolling on and on like a tidal wave. “You aren’t fooling anyone except yourself if you want to lie. You’re going to live out the rest of your life never knowing freedom again if you keep up this little dance of yours and no amount of sarcasm is going to change that, McCree.” He swipes a hand over one of the many pictures that Jesse has done a great job of pretending don’t exist and shoves it in front of his face. It’s him and Colt. “Of the _very_ few that we took alive, all but you and two others have talked and none of them have half of what I want.”  
  
Jesse opens his mouth, but he’s barely got a syllable in the works before he’s cut off. “And before you think that means you’ve got leverage, rest _assured_ that it’s a race to see how long before I decide I don’t care enough to continue bothering with you—And the finish line is fast approaching.” The man rises to his feet. Jesse’s eyes snap up, and he grits his teeth together to make sure none of the acid in his throat makes an appearance.  
  
“So you better start talking, because once I leave that door, I’m not coming back.”  
  
Jesse sees nothing but slow promise in those eyes. His pulse races along in his ears and the lump in his throat petrifies into solid stone. Everything he had tuned out in his self-made bubble returns with a vengeance: The exhaustion rapidly replacing his bones with lead; the frenzied thoughts and worries that made his frontal lobe _buzz_ like a hornets’ nest; the florescent lights sinking into his eyes until his optic nerves burned; the pain in his hands, in face, in his chest—  
  
“Why did you join Deadlock?”  
  
Jesse cycles through the dozens of lies and truths that he could say, but none of them will bubble up. They sink to the bottom of his lungs. His interrogator narrows his eyes and drums his nails against the table once, twice, a third time—“Have it your way then.”  
  
And his hand is on the fucking door before Jesse can blurt out something that isn’t a truth, isn’t a lie, but it’s the only thing he can _say._  
  
“I didn’t want to.”  
  
There’s nothing in reply, and Jesse panics, thinking that he missed the sound of the door through the rush in his ears, and the thought has him hunching over until—  
  
“That’s your excuse?” The man doesn’t return to his seat, and Jesse can feel his stare burning at the back of his neck. “Forgive me if I need clarification.”  
  
Jesse digs his nails into every single painful sore on his hands, and the sting is what allows him to spit it out: “I joined because I had to and I stayed because I needed to—“  
  
“You don’t get that far up the ladder unless you climb.”  
  
“Not if you get lifted by the person at the top,” Jesse rushes out, “Not if you’re useful enough—and if you keep being useful y’stay alive and once y’stop, you die. You don’t know how—“  
  
“I’ve had Deadlock on my radar for months. I know how they operate. They don’t take the unenthusiastic.”  
  
It’s how he says it—informative and casual, as if it being ‘on radar’ is anything like living it. It’s the undertone of judgment curling at the edge of his words like smoke. It’s the superiority. It’s all of those things and also none of them, and whatever it is, it makes the panic and fear corroding the inside of Jesse’s chest boil up and ignite until all he’s feeling is _rage._  
  
“Imagine how fucking _easy_ it is to be enthusiastic,” Jesse shouts, “When you don’t want to be force-fed lead!” His words burn his tongue on the way out, but he can’t lock that kind of fire behind his teeth. If he tried, he’d go up in smoke. “You don’ wake up one day and decide to kill people for the hell of it,” Jesse snarls, even though he should be doing something smart like shutting up—“You do it because the alternative is getting killed for the hell of it.” Because once you show up on Deadlock’s radar, you don’t just hop off. If you aren’t with the gang, you’re against it, and Deadlock will allow no rivals.  
  
“You expect me to believe you never had the chance to leave?”  
  
“And do what, exactly? Start a club with all the other deserters?” Jesse laughs, caustic and sour and ever-so-slightly hysterical. “Oh yeah, they’re all fucking _dead_ —or they’re so far underground that they might as well be.” People don’t get to leave. It isn’t some causal club that people can try out for a few months and then forget about. Deadlock is ride or die, heavy emphasis on the ‘die.'  
  
_Blood in, blood out, Jes. That’s how we keep it going._  
  
Jesse doesn’t pause, because now that he’s opened his mouth he can’t close it—“We can’t all be fortunate enough to get to do what we _want_ —“ his intuition and his pride have teamed up to try to shut Jesse down, but something stronger than both keeps on yelling, his throat croaking and cramping.  “Some of us gotta play with the hand we’re dealt,” he snarls, “and if you can’t do that, then you might ’swell start digging your grave.”  
  
For the blissful time of three frenzied heartbeats, Jesse hears nothing but the pounding of his pulse.  Then fire crashes over his skin. He bites down on his tongue and swallows back his voice, but his words are buzzing around his ears like flies over spoiled meat. He shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t have opened his mouth.  
  
The silence rakes over his spine and his stomach twists like a snake crawled down his throat. The nausea kicks him again and again until he’s positive he’s just going to be sick. He drops his head and forces his breathing to even out, but it’s slow work. In the mean time, the man has circled around to stand in front of Jesse, leaning against the table. Jesse refuses to look up, not when his expression is bound to be an open and particularly pathetic book. He just needs a moment, just a _minute_ to shove all these thoughts and ugly feelings _away—_  
  
“Now that we’re being open, let’s talk about our options.”  
  
It would go so much faster if he would just _shut up_. It would be so much easier if he wasn’t standing _right there_.  
  
 A thumb jabs into the underside of Jesse‘s chin and his head hinges back a few degrees too far to be comfortable. He flinches at the contact, eyes wide and far too panicked for his comfort, but the man‘s hold on his jaw doesn‘t let up. He pins Jesse with another one of those deceptively casual stares,  
  
“So the way I see it, you have three choices.” The man ticks up a thumb, counting them off as if Jesse needs a _fucking visual cue_ to get it—“You resume your brick wall act, piss me off, outlive your usefulness, and I send you to the worst supermax I can find and let you rot.” He raises and eyebrow and then slowly draws his thumb across his neck. He’s slit a couple throats, that much is obvious: he mimics the sound perfectly.  
  
Jesse spends far too long frozen solid before he jerks his head to the side and throws off the hand on his chin, baring his teeth in challenge. Anger is a minefield of stupid choices waiting to blow up in his face, but it’s the only guarded place he can retreat.  
  
The man takes no mind and raises a pointer finger. “Two; you sing like a canary and you find out how nice I can be. I get you a cushy set up and maybe you get to see the sun as a free man—if you haven’t developed cataracts by then.” He gauges Jesse’s reaction for a moment, taking in the scowl and tension in his frame. Calmly, he raises his hand to his temple and pops an imaginary bullet in his brain. “That’s probably still a death sentence on your part and it makes me feel like a sellout.”  
  
So it boils down to snitching. Not that there’s much to snitch for anymore. Not that there’s any reason for him to _not_ take the deal. That traitorous thought itches at the base of his skull like a maggot drilling into his spine. He can’t shake it off. He can’t ignore it, so he forces his mouth to move into the only safe track he has left.  
  
“Oh, don’t leave me in suspense,” he drawls, his voice surprisingly calm even with the words tasting like ash in the back of his throat. “I simply gotta know the third option.”  
  
“Number three,” the man continues, unfazed. “You walk out of here without the cuffs, and you answer only to me.”  
  
Jesse narrows his eyes. The offer hangs in the air and Jesse hates to say that it sounds tempting. He hates to say that he believed it could be possible—that for the whole of two seconds, he had been hooked. He hates to say that he’s a coward, that the man in front of him called it completely when he guessed that Jesse would rather eat lead than live behind bars. He hates that he’s gullible enough to feel something like flicker of hope before he caps that particular candle and remembers where he is and what he’s done.  
  
_There ain’t any second chances if you get caught, Jesse, and anyone who says otherwise is a—_  
  
“Liar.”  
  
“Most days,” the man agrees. “However, you just so happened to catch me in a selfish mood—lucky for you.”  
  
Jesse feels like a lot of things. Lucky isn’t on that list.  
  
“Option three, of course, is contingent upon you’re cooperation. But once that’s dealt with, you get to walk out of here with a job.”  
  
Jesse chews on those words for a few seconds. They taste like blood. “And this job?”  
  
The man shrugs. “Can’t give you the details, but you can trust that it will probably worse than your old one.” He shifts his weight and offhandedly mentions, “We do offer dental, though.”  
  
That quip hits him like a thump to the chest, and Jesse can’t help the laugh that bubbles out, startled and exhausted. It’s not enough to drown out the rapid current of his thoughts. He looks down at the pictures scattered before the table. Everyone in them is dead.  
  
Everyone except Jesse.  
  
A Deadlock doesn’t talk. That’s law. Betraying the gang is a death sentence. That’s fact.  
  
But that only applies when there _is_ a Deadlock. There isn’t anymore.  
  
Jesse’s intuition is legendary. It pulls him through the messiest of fights, whispers at him when to shut up if he wants to live and when to speak out if he wants to get shit done. He values it almost as much as his aim. He’s had years to hone his survival instinct into something formidable, and when it whispers something at the back of his mind, he drops everything to listen.  
  
And right now that instinct is screaming at him to say _yes._  
  
Jesse slowly drags his eyes sky-ward, taking in the carefully blank expression that he’s grown familiar with. He runs his teeth over the cracks in his lips and shuts his eyes against the burning light.  
  
“Shit, man, you had me at dental.”


	3. Utilitarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse is stuck in probation purgatory and the only person willing to talk to him is the one who lies for a living.

The first thing that Jesse does after the cuffs come off is down an entire pitcher of water in one go. It’s cold enough to make his teeth ache, but he takes it in stride. It washes the blood and dust and exhaustion from the back of his throat, restoring some of that clarity he‘d lost to the hours of silence and stress.

“We have these things called cups.” Beanie gestures to said cup, his lip curled slightly in disgust.

Jesse shoves the empty pitcher away and drags the back of his hand across his mouth. “Wow. Amazin’.” Jesse reaches over the table for the food set across from him, taking a heaping bite. “Never woulda’ guessed.”  
  
That seems to be all the derailment Beanie is willing to allow. He sighs and gets down to business.  
  
“Your name?”  
  
“Oh come on, we’ve been through this already.”  
  
“Just say it for the record,” Beanie orders, gesturing vaguely to the mirror on the left.  
  
Jesse rolls his eyes. “Name’s Jesse McCree.” He digs around for a stubborn piece of meat that got wedged somewhere in his teeth. He’s probably laying on the lack of table manners a little thick, but revulsion is a new look for Beanie, and Jesse thinks it suits his face well. He can’t be an overt pain in the neck anymore, that much is true, but he’s still gotta get his kicks somewhere. “And you would be? Just for the record, ‘course.”  
  
"Reyes.”  
  
The aforementioned man launches into quick and simple questions, yes-or-nos that Jesse can answer on auto pilot. He doesn’t let himself think too closely on what they’re asking. The ones that follow, the ones that require multiple syllables, are a bit trickier.  
  
“When did you join Deadlock.”  
  
Unbidden, Jesse’s eyes stray to the ink on his arm. “Got tatted up when I was fourteen, almost pushing fifteen.” Both of those statements are true. Jesse’s definition of ‘pushing’ might be a bit hazy, but that isn’t a lie. His lack of hesitation gets him a free ride right into the next question.  
  
“And where or what is Icehouse?”  
  
And this is the kicker. This is the solid information that makes him a snake and a traitor. Jesse rattles off his answer, giving himself no time to think it over. “Safe house near the border. I dunno the exact address but I can find it on a map decently enough.”  
  
Reyes wastes no time in pulling up a holoscreen. Jesse fumbles with the display for a few moment before he gets the hang of it. He chews on the inside of his cheek, swiping and zooming in over southern New Mexico. Once he finds the town marker, he circles a section of the map. “Somewhere ‘round here.”  
  
“That’s the most precise area you can get?” Reyes shoots him with an unimpressed look.  
  
Jesse scoffs. “I haven’t been there in a long time. It’s a bar next to some old shoe factory.” Jesse debates whether he should mention that the owners run cocaine as a side business, but he rules that out. There’s a liability in revealing that, Jesse is sure.  
  
Reyes runs a hand over his face and waves a hand to the mirror that Jesse is finally getting _isn’t_ a mirror. “Put Parker on point, confirm location and establish satellite surveillance.”  
  
So this has never been a private audience. Huh.  
  
Surprisingly, Reyes only grills him for answers for another ten minutes. Oh, they’re important questions to be sure, but Jesse is surprised by how quickly they are over and done with. He says as much.  
  
“That’s it?”  
  
Reyes looks up from his holopad begrudgingly. “What part of ‘we’re done for now’ was unclear?”  
  
Jesse hates it when people answer a question with a question. He side eyes the man. “Just s’prised is all.”There‘s a hell of a lot they ain‘t asking; stuff Jesse knows they would find useful. However, just ‘cause he knows that doesn‘t mean he‘s about to volunteer.  
  
“Do you know what time it is?”  
  
Oh, Jesse loves being petty. He barely keeps a straight face when he says innocently, “Am I supposed to?”  
  
Reyes answers his own question, sadly not appearing bothered. “It is 0200 precisely. Since I didn’t get to nap like some people, I’m not going to stay awake chasing after non-time-sensitive info.” There’s a knock at the door, and Reyes rises to open it. Whoever’s there mumbles something, and Reyes responds with a clipped “Yes.” The door shuts again, and as Reyes passes back by, he tosses a stack of papers in front of Jesse.  
  
Jesse scrutinizes the document. It’s at least forty pages of bullshit in font small enough to make him squint. “Am I ‘posed to read all this?”  
  
Reyes takes a long drag from a cup of coffee, the scent noticeable even though his bloody nose. “Technically, yes.” He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and slides a pen across the table. “But as long as you sign everything, I really don’t give a shit.”  
  
Jesse debates on whether skimming it would do any good—curiosity wins out, morbid as it is, and he drags himself through paragraphs of legal jargon. The details evade him, but he gets the gist.  
  
Medical releases, consent to background checks, no suing allowed and such. Since none of these things really apply to Jesse, he guesses that whoever just slaughtered his gang is something official and they have a habit of recruiting people the legal way. The things that are made for him are further in the back. It boils down to him signing away his rights guaranteed as an American citizen and consenting to being detained by the UN and _blah blah blah_.  
  
It’s about what he expected.  
  
He scrawls something that looks vaguely like his name and pushes the contract away.  
  
It should bother him—it should feel like a chain closing around his throat—but as he watches Reyes flip through it once to make sure everything is as it should be, it just feels like more of the _same_. Whatever the hell it is that he just signed up for, he can’t imagine it being that much different from Deadlock. Jesse’s still doing all the things he’s good at for all the same reasons. A slip of paper doesn’t change that.  
  
Everything picks up after that. Some poor soul who looked like they’d just been woken up registers his bio-metrics—fingerprints, retinal scans, blood type. There’s something odd about watching little snippets of your body become digitized and filed away. It isn’t overtly bothersome. He sure as hell ain’t about to complain. Reyes certainly isn't going to be sympathetic.  
  
Speak of the devil. Jesse catches only the tail end of whatever Reyes said and exhaustion had warbled it into something that might ‘swell been Japanese. Jesse hadn't even noticed that he returned. He shakes his head, dispelling the fog creeping over his thoughts. He twists around in his seat to look behind him, the motion popping every joint in his spine from neck to tail. “Huh?”  
  
Reyes gives him a sardonic look from the doorway. ”Is it your bedtime already?"  
  
Another question-answer.  
  
Jesse scowls, dry irritation running through him. What Reyes had called a nap earlier had only been a lesson on how to fuck up your neck while still managing to remain on the wrong side of sleep. He’s been awake for a fucking eternity. His eyes started crumbling out of their sockets hours ago and he doesn’t have a caffeine drip to keep him wired awake, so Reyes can just cut him some slack. He scrubs at his eyelids and disregards a few dozen quips that would probably get him fired before he even leaves the room, instead opting for expectant silence.  
  
He doesn't have to wait long. Reyes waves him over impatiently. “I said to hurry up. We’ve got one more stop before you get to sleep.”  
  
At least that means the finish line is in sight. Jesse gingerly eases himself to his feet, trying to work out the aches in his joints. Reyes apparently couldn’t stand to wait another two seconds because by the time Jesse turns around, the door is swinging shut. Jesse’s eyes widen before he jumps to catch the door—he had no idea if it would automatically lock but he isn’t about to risk it. He jogs to close the gap between him and Reyes, who doesn’t spare him a glance.  
  
Well, this companionable silence is a _peach_ and all, but Jesse’s got a small problem. “Did you have to steal my shoes?”  
  
“Protocol. I’ve had too many people conceal things in strange places.” Reyes turns a corner and glances over his shoulder, shooting Jesse an unimpressed look. “Considering the knife hidden in your boot, I’m not sorry.”  
  
Damn.  
  
Jesse refuses to be cowed,  “Well now that you've found that," he argues, “There's no reason to keep ‘em.  
  
“True,” Reyes says airily, “but there’s also no reason for me to go and dig through evidence lockers for them right this second.”  
  
Jesse looks down at his socks, a few too many holes in the toe to be considered proper. He's not too concerned about the boots. They can be replaced. “And what about my hat?” He makes it come across as offhand. If he sounds a bit too invested in it, they'll probably hold it over his head, pun not intended.  
  
“What about it?”

Son of a—He's doing this shit on purpose. He must be. No one is this fucking obtuse.  
  
Jesse reels in the irrational urge to bare his teeth. “When can I get that back?”  
  
“We’ll see how your intelligence clears.”  
  
Jesse recognizes it’s a lost cause. It doesn’t stop him from glaring. Reyes doesn’t give any indication that he notices, but Jesse ain’t subtle. His little staring contest with the back of Reyes’ head is interrupted by the man in question stopping suddenly and opening a door.  
  
In the first real and honest surprise Jesse’s had since he said yes, he realizes he’s in an infirmary. It’s only an examination room, that much is clear, but he can see a room with half a dozen cots through the glass doors opposite the entrance. Three of them are curtained off. He hesitates on the threshold, confused and a little wary, but he edges his way in at Reyes’ prompting.  
  
“And what are we doing here?” He eyes the various stasis fields and machines lining the walls, his interest piqued. He‘d only dabbled in the more exotic tech that Deadlock traded, preferring to stick to guns and the occasional land mine, but he knew military-grade merchandise when he saw it. By his appraisal, he could probably get ten grand for a single unit if he played his cards right.  
  
But that‘s a moot point now, Jesse reminds himself. No longer in the trafficking business.  
  
He‘s strictly legal now.  
  
_Joy._  
  
“Three guesses,” Reyes says, leaning back against the wall, “and the first two don’t count.”  
  
What a great way to answer the question. Jesse shrugs off the not-reply and goes to examine some hard-light interactive diagram of an eye. He’d really prefer to see what’s locked away in the cabinets behind the bio-metric locks, but Reyes would probably frown upon him destroying the hinges out of some sense of curiosity.  
  
He’s only left in suspense for a minute or so before the he spies a doctor ghosting through the darkened room opposite them through the glass doors, his long coat dyed red by the emergency exit lights. He looks dead-tired as he slips into the office, scrubbing a hand over his face. The expression holds for a split second before he just looks shocked. He snaps into a hasty salute.  
  
“Commander Reyes."  
  
Said commander simply nods as if it’s _completely_ obvious that Jesse has been antagonizing the person in charge instead of some grunt who got handed the shit-detail. He stands a little straighter despite himself, shooting Reyes a wary look, but the man isn’t looking at him.  
  
“At ease."  
  
The doctor tries for a smile, but it just comes across as a grimace. “Agent Nicholson is in stable condition, finally. The first aid was enough for her to pull through."  
  
Reyes shuts his eyes and exhales slowly, the relief on his face dull and weary. “Good.” He cracks one eye open and tilts his head meaningfully to Jesse. “Can you patch him up?”  
  
Oh.  
  
That should’ve been as obvious as Reyes implied.  
  
The doctor agrees quickly, waving Jesse over to an elevated padded surface by the wall. Trying for some aspect of good cheer despite his obvious exhaustion, he laughs ruefully. “That nose of your will need to be set.”  
  
Jesse is aware. He lingers in the safe corner of the room for a split-second before doing as directed. His feet don’t touch the ground when he hops up to sit on the platform. And then there’s a whole lot of doctor pushing into his personal space, intently examining Jesse‘s face.  
  
“Since the break isn’t complex, we can just do this the quick way.”  
  
The invasion makes him stiffen, but Jesse holds back on his knee-jerk reaction to go for the throat. Reyes would definitely frown upon that. “Sounds great,” Jesse says flatly, already knowing what the ‘quick way’ entailed. He’s broken his nose far too many times to be unfamiliar with the practice.  
  
At his wholly enthusiastic consent, the doctor nods. Then there are fingertips, glass cool and impersonal, resting beneath his eyes and hovering over the sides of his nose. Jesse lets his eyes slide shut and inhales once, encouraging his stream of thoughts to slip into something muddled and hazy. It’s simple to let the snap of cartilage wash over him with nothing but a short sigh.  
  
When Jesse tunes back in, the doctor is still unnervingly close. His expression is quizzical and he prods at the skin under Jesse's right eye. “Have you been crying?”  
  
The last of his haze dissipates, and Jesse knocks the doctor’s hand away with a glare. “Sure as hell ain’t.”  
  
Reyes coughs rather suspiciously, but when Jesse looks over the man is engrossed in his holopad.  
  
The doctor purses his lips, his gaze keyed in on Jesse’s eyes and yet somehow completely missing the animosity in them. He hums discontentedly. “You probably have allergies then. I’ll need to do a histamine write up some time this week.”  
  
The meaning of that flies over Jesse’s head for a moment before he realizes what the doctor is saying. “Naw,” Jesse says, interrupting some recommendation for meds that he didn’t need. “Light sensitive. 'S normal.” Deadeye always leaves behind some side effects.  Migraines are one of the nicer ones. Normally his hat would block out the worst of it and a cold can of beer would handle the rest, but since both of those are in short supply, Jesse will just have to grin and bear it.  
  
The doctor squints. ”So the inflammation is chronic? We’ll need to take a look at that." He turns away to the sink, wetting a washcloth.  
  
Jesse rolls his eyes. That's too much effort for something as minor as the occasional migraine. “Doesn’t bother me much. No need to make a fuss.”  
  
“Certainly not at this hour,” the doctor assures,” but eventually you’ll need to check on it.” He hands over the wet cloth, gesturing for Jesse to clean up his bloody face. Jesse manages to take off one streak of grime from his cheek before he's interrupted.  
  
“Wait.”  
  
His hands are turned over and scrutinized before the doctor stiffens, and Jesse is just becoming resigned to his lack of goddamn personal space—  
  
“... These are infected.” The ice in that sentence formed faster than snow in December. The one-eighty throws Jesse for a loop, and he can’t imagine just why that little snippet of info would spark such cold anger, but one look at the doctor’s face confirms that Jesse isn’t just hearing things.  
  
Jesse levels a glance down to his palms. The broken blisters are angry and ugly and disgusting, but that’s nothing a little soap and water won’t fix. He says as much, but the doctor only shoots him a critical look, the expression not feeling entirely impersonal, before bustling off to search for something in the cabinets.  
  
“I can’t do anything about your eyes without further examination,” the doctor clips out, settling into something steely and detached and professional. They pour antiseptic onto a cotton pad and clean up his hands with quick even strokes, but they no longer linger nearby as they did before. Quite the opposite: the doctor practically jumps away at first chance. “I'll schedule an appointment in the next few days to do a full physical.” He says it as it that physical is God’s gift to some heathen.  
  
Jesse feels his hackles rise. When the doctor comes close again to wrap his hands in bandages, Jesse raises a hand to stop him. “I got it.”  
  
The doctor has no problem with letting Jesse handle it. He steps away to unlock one of the cabinets and sort through it, throwing over his shoulder, “You’ll need to apply this to your hands twice daily and keep them bandaged.” The this ends up being some anti-biotic gel that Jesse knows from experience is a pretty decent pain reliever. Military med-packs that Deadlock salvaged on runs were standardized to the point of tedium which means Jesse knows how to patch himself up without some pissy white coat having to do the honors.  
  
“Do you have any other injuries I need to treat?"  
  
Nothing that Jesse is willing to stay a second longer for.  
  
Jesse adopts his own brand of professionalism. “Nothing else,” he says flatly, hopping up to walk back over to Reyes. “Thank you kindly.”  
  
With that permission to disregard Jesse’s existence, the doctor turns to Reyes. “Nicholson should be stable enough for transport by the time you’re ready to leave, sir.”  
  
Reyes thanks the man and dismisses him, every inch of him military and completely used to this kind of treatment and how the hell had Jesse ever thought that he could be anything other than in charge?  
  
The doctor hesitates for half a second before saying, “I’d recommend that he get some more water. He's dehydrated.” Then he scuttles back through the door and slips behind one of the curtains, not sparing a look in Jesse’s direction. That annoys him more than anything.  
  
When the two of them leave, Jesse manages to hold his silence for exactly ninety seconds. “What's his _problem_?”  
  
“If I had to wager a guess, it’d would be the six hour emergency surgery he just came out of. He’s not too fond of your gang’s handiwork.”  
  
His arm. That had been it. The doc had seen the ink on his arm.  
  
Well that solved that mystery.  
  
”Well I‘m not too fond of your gang‘s handiwork,” Jesse counters. He kicks himself the moment it leaves his mouth. Why has that sounded so clever in his head?  
  
Reyes drops the joking attitude in a heart beat, pinning Jesse with a glare that makes him freeze. “He just go finished removing _your_ bullets from my operatives. He doesn’t have to like you, McCree, he just has to do his job. As long as that is taken care of, I’m not going to dictate the emotions of my soldiers—especially when they are goddamn _right_ to feel as such."  
  
Jesse feels his stomach twist. He looks away. “Fair enough."  
  
“More than fair,” Reyes corrects. “And don't forget that.”  
  
Jesse isn't sorry in the least. He doubts he ever will be. Hard to feel any sympathy for the people who ripped his life to shreds like it was a regular Tuesday.  
  
But saying that, he can tell, is a one way ticket to super max. He may be dead tired, but he isn't suicidal.  
  
This calls for a subject change.  
  
“You still haven't explained what this place is.”  
  
Reyes nods blithely. “I haven't.”  
  
Jesse waits for a moment, but it becomes obvious that Reyes isn’t going to say anything else without prompting. “Well, are you going to?”  
  
“That depends.”  
  
It feels like Reyes is fucking with him. Jesse would be absolutely certain with anyone else, but Reyes’ poker face is too good.  Jesse gathers his patience and says, “On what?”  
  
“On whether you’ll actually ask a question about it.”  
  
He's fucking with him.  
  
Jesse abandons any attempt at subtlety. It obviously isn't working.  
  
“Where are we?”  
  
“Classified.”  
  
“What is this?”  
  
“Because of the lack of clarity, I'm just going to assume you mean this operation.”  
  
Jesse’s jaw ticks just slightly. “You'd assume correct.”  
  
“This,” Reyes says, gesturing to himself “is Blackwatch.”  
  
Jesse narrows his eyes, appraising Reyes for the thousandth time that night. “And what the hell is Blackwatch?”  
  
“Classified.”  
  
Jesse grits his teeth, but he can't hide the annoyance on his face.  
  
Reyes tilts his head, his face lighting up with mock-recognition. “Hmmm. It's almost as if having to ask for the barest snippet of information over and over again is draining.”  
  
Jesse’s newly-wrapped hands clench into fists, his face reddening. He jerks his head away because if he has to look at that self-satisfied smirk for another second—  
  
“Your info still has to pass muster before I'm telling you anything,” Reyes says, his eyes darting down to the holopad and reading some sort of message that Jesse can’t make out. “You'll just have to be held in suspense until I get results on it.”  
  
“How am I supposed—“  
  
“You don't. You can't know if I'm lying or telling the truth. You're just going to have to wait and see.”  
  
Jesse will worry about the fact that he‘s so easily read at another date. He forces himself to cool off, to chill out. The tension in his frame lingers, but he’s got his voice back under control by the time he mutters, “That doesn't inspire much confidence.”  
  
“If you want to back out, super max is still waiting for you.” Before Jesse can interrupt, Reyes rolls on. “Actually, I'll be a goddamn angle and probably give you option two since I'm just so nice. Let me know before I go.”  
  
The words for some very creative curses are burning on the tip of Jesse’s tongue, but he swallows them back. “I'm still in,”  Jesse bites out instead. As if he has any other choice. As if the choice Reyes is offering is any choice at all.  
  
“Great. I'd hate to see you throw your life away.”  
  
Ah, when Reyes brings in that sugary sweet tone, Jesse can't help but feel warm and fuzzy inside. It's probably fungus growing on all the piping hot _bullshit_ Reyes is feeding him.  
  
Cooling off. That’s him.  
  
He can fixate on his resentment later, even if Reyes managed to tap some previously unknown well because he hasn’t been this angry in _years_ —  
  
But later. Not now.  
  
“I'm curious as to why the hell a commander is personally escorting me around." That’s good. That sounds almost casual. And if he’s going to have to be civil, then he might as well fish for answers.  
  
Reyes laughs. “Isn't for your benefit but it's cute you think yourself so important.”  
  
Jesse ignores the dig aimed his way and replies, ”So you come ‘round here often then?”  
  
Reyes stops in front of an unmarked door, keying in a five digit pin that Jesse only catches the tail end of. He’ll catch the first part the next time. If there ever will be a next time. ”Only when we have guests of your caliber.”  
  
The door slides open with a short hiss, and Reyes waves him in. It‘s a big room, made even bigger since all it has is a twin cot and a small desk. Jesse shuffles in, the low ceiling suddenly making him rethink his position on claustrophobia.  
  
”Bathroom off to that door on the side,” Reyes explains offhandedly. ”Spare blankets in the drawers under the bed. Clothes that will hold you over until tomorrow are on top of the desk.”  
  
Jesse glances around, cautious and confused. “This’s mine?”  
  
“For the time being.” Reyes steps back from the door. “No matter how this plays out, you won’t be staying here for long.”  
  
Well ain‘t that just sunshine and daisies.  
  
”Someone will be here in the morning to escort you to questioning. Who ever you talk to, don‘t give them the shit you gave me. They won‘t be near as forgiving.”  
  
Jesse gives a tight nod, stepping over to examine the prepackaged clothes on the desk. It takes far too long for his brain to unscramble the mess, but he realizes holding nurses clothes.  
  
“Oh, and kid?”  
  
Jesse shoots him a sour look across the room, clutching his pack of scrubs.  
  
“Take a shower. You reek.”  
  
There may not be a point to flipping off someone who can’t see it, but _damn_ if it ain’t cathartic.

* * *

  
  
Jesse doesn’t see Reyes for the next few days. Instead, he plays twenty questions with a bunch a various agents, rarely the same face twice. They’re professional, refusing to be sidetracked or engage in the back and forth that Jesse had fallen uneasily into with Reyes.  
  
They also obviously didn’t like him.  
  
Oh, they tried like hell to come across as neutral, but Jesse had run with Deadlock to long to not be hyper-aware of what people thought of him. That kind of obliviousness would get you killed quicker than anything. However, he’d also been at it too long to care. If anything, he gets a kick out of provoking them.  
  
He takes care to never stray over the line of what could be misconstrued as “uncooperative.” He’s not gonna jeopardize his deal with the devil with something as stupid as violating the terms and agreements.  
  
But, oh, was it _amusing_ to lounge in his little stretch of passive aggressive freedom.  
  
He enjoyed it far more than being stuck in his room with a half pack of cigarettes that he couldn’t light, courtesy of some poor sucker who didn’t check their pockets enough. Going cold turkey was never pleasant, and the need for nicotine sours the hours he spends without distraction. And it turns out people are about the only distraction he has.  
  
He spends day after day talking and ratting out and being a good little snitch, and every time the disloyalty starts to prick at his sensibilities, he reminds himself of his options. Of his lack of them.  
  
On the fourth day, he sits in front of something new: a woman in plain clothes who’s name goes in one ear and out the other. She’s impartial. Not the fake impartial that Jesse toyed with during his stints with the other interrogators, but truly and dearly neutral.  
  
That would be a goddamn relief if it weren’t for how personal she gets.  
  
“And you have no living family.”  
  
Jesse shakes his head, opting to keep it factual and simple. He matches her even stare, trying to figure out what she wants. The other people were easy. He knew what they wanted, and that handed him the power to give and withhold as he pleased. Nominally at least. Even if he knew he’d have to give things up, it made it easier to know that he had even the barest aspect of control over the situation.  
  
It isn't as simple with this one.  
  
“Do you consider any of your former associates to be family?”  
  
_We’re all family here, Jes—_  
  
He tilts his head back and stares up at the ceiling, sighing. “Not particularly.”  
  
“That must have been lonely.”  
  
He levels a glance her direction, arching an eyebrow before he examines his nails. “Not particularly.”  
  
There was rarely a minute alone to himself in Deadlock. He went where Colt went, and that was always in the thick of the action. And then he filled his time with drink and talk and sleep. There were always bars to crash, poker games to win, business deals to make. The first few months before he’d proved his worth, sure no one wanted to bother with him, but that hadn’t been the case for years.  
  
“I’m assuming you didn’t have many peers your age. How did that feel?”  
  
“Normal," Jesse says unhelpfully.  
  
He spies her scribble something onto the tablet in her lap.  
  
“How do you feel about your mother?”  
  
Jesse snorts. “Can’t see how it’s any of your business.”  
  
The better part of a week passes slowly, full of little annoyances and inconveniences that stretch time out to an eternity. He's told when to eat and where to do it. They give him clothes that are just like anyone elses and tell him _yes you have to wear them McCree_. His lights shut out at ten and turn on at six, without a care as to whether he actually slept through any of those hours of no moon darkness. The worst times are the hours he spends alone before lights out. With out any distractions, he’s left to just stare at the wall, trying to figure out what the hell he’s going to do.  
  
Five days of this left him with one unsatisfying conclusion: Commit.  
  
He can’t half ass it, that much is obvious—he’s only got this deal because he’s worth more to Reyes as a weapon than a prison filler. And that means sucking up and making sure he never stops being worth that much. That’s normal. That’s the modus operandi he’s been working with for years.  
  
A part of him is screaming in the back of his head that _they’re lying, they’re gonna toss you as soon as their done, what are you **doing** —_  
  
But Jesse ignores that part. It’s less out of logic or reason and more because that type of thinking will drive him fucking insane. He’s already told them everything. Well, at least everything that they thought to ask about. He’s already committed. He was committed the second he opened his mouth in that room with Reyes, even if he hadn’t known it then.  
  
The only good thing about day six is that he manages to snag a lighter from an unguarded pocket.  
  
He didn’t realize just how bad withdrawal had hit him until the first puff of smoke hits his throat.  
  
“Holy shit,” Jesse breathes, closing his eyes to revel in the absolute bliss of nicotine. He’d forgotten how wired he could get without something to take the edge off. Alcohol did a better job of wiping the slate clean, that’s for sure, but cigs are more reliable. He couldn’t drink on the job, not if he wanted to stay sharp, but smoking didn’t dull him down—it just evened him out. Took the bite out of the sun, made insults bounce off his skin.  
  
The stick is finished far too soon, but Jesse doesn’t light a second. He needs to ration his supply or else he’ll just be back in the same position. Cigarettes were a dime a dozen in Deadlock, but Blackwatch had slim pickings. He had an escort to everywhere, and they were never ‘specially keen about letting him within arms reach of anyone else. He’s also made zero friends, so the odds of bumming any are low enough that he won’t bother asking. He’d only gotten this pack out of sheer dumb luck.  
  
He lays back, staring up at the ceiling. Even though he’s had his fix and is feeling loads better than he has all week, he can tell tonight is going to be one of the toss and turners that make mornings absolute hell. Sleeping isn’t easy even when he’s exhausted, not in this room with it’s unfamiliar bed and strange silence and clinical cleanliness.  
  
Jesse finds it ironic—he can pass out in cars and loud bars and perched up in trees with mosquitoes buzzing in his ears, but it’s the quiet that keeps him awake.  
  
Sighing, he rolls over and does what he usually does when he can’t sleep: take inventory. A good practice in Deadlock, where things were liable to get up and walk away if you weren’t looking, but a bit pointless in this place. However, it’s the process, not the point, that helps him wind down, so Jesse lets himself waste a little time. He’s got so much time to himself he’s starting to get sick of the luxury.  
  
From Deadlock he had his clothes from the raid, vest probably resting at the bottom of some trash can somewhere, boots and hat still not in the picture no matter how much he asked after them. His tattoos. His smoke addiction.  
  
His life.  
  
From Blackwatch, he’d been given a few sets of uniforms—seven black shirts, neck high and uncomfortable, shoulders and arms a bit too loose. Seven pairs of pants to match. Soft, flat prison issue shoes that Jesse hated.  
  
Adhesive bandages. Anti-biotic gel.  
  
Seven cigarettes, one already used. A lighter, low on fuel. Standard toiletries and towels.  
  
And that was it. That’s all Jesse had to his name anymore. A week ago, he could have wasted an hour making sure his stuff stayed in its  place; checking in on his books and savings that he kept in the hollow booth in the Route 66 diner; making sure his personal stash of tequila stayed full under the false floor in his (it wasn’t really his, but he slept on the couch there so Jesse had no qualms claiming ownership) room in the wear house; counting out his ammo and cleaning his six shooter, modifying all the electronic flash bangs that came his way, sewing up any tears that might’ve appeared in his clothes when he wasn’t looking.  
  
Now it took precisely three minutes to find and categorize everything he owned.  
  
It stings. He shuts his eyes against the flicker of irritation that rushes over his skin. When he opens them again, he reverses the whole process, carefully returning everything to it’s rightful place. Even moving at a snails pace, he only manages to kill another ten minutes.  
  
He's right back where he started.  
  
Bored and on edge and tired and wide awake. It makes him almost long for the dirty looks and calculating stares that follow him around the base. At least then he's got an enemy to focus on; someone to preform for even if no one likes his role. Now all he has is himself and his memories, and those are never a good combination without alcohol to mix things smooth.  
  
At around 0200, he lights another cigarette.  
  
When he rolls out of bed in the morning, he's still not tired. He's not hungry either.  He's mostly just resigned and bored and content to let his body go on autopilot. He showers and brushes his teeth (they gave him a soft rubber handle so he couldn't go off and make a shank, what paranoid assholes), mostly just thinking about the book he left behind in the dinner over a week ago.  
  
Was it still sitting there, just waiting for him to come back and pick up where he left off?  
  
He's halfway dressed before he realizes that he's wearing his clothes from the raid.  
  
The shirt was an old one, a button down he had owned even before he had the shoulders to fill it out. He hadn't worn it since someone took it to get it washed. He thought he would never see it again and had been particularly difficult that day instead of demanding it back—if they knew he liked it, they would probably take something else to fuck with him.  
  
Imagine his surprise when his clothes were sitting neatly on his bunk when he returned to his cell that day.  
  
But now he's wearing it. And he really shouldn't be, he knows he will get shit for it. Maybe that’s why he keeps it on. Anything to break the monotony of the day, anything to get a push back instead of being ignored or blankly examined. Some actual godforsaken conflict sounds fucking amazing right now instead of sitting still and losing his goddamn mind from boredom.  
  
When his escort knocks, Jesse is dressed and aware and fired up to start some shit.  
  
Imagine his surprise when said escort blandly tells him to report to the mess for morning meal.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I'll pick you up at the end of breakfast.”  
  
Jesse’s second, more incredulous “what?” Is wasted. The door is already swinging shut, and Jesse hears footsteps quickly retreating.  
  
Jesse knows how to get to the cafeteria even though he’s never actually been. He ate his meals in between questioning sessions or in his room. Private. Out of sight from undesignated eyes. Which is honestly how he prefers it. A habit left over from his earlier Deadlock days where he just wanted to be left alone.  
  
Back then, he could just wedge himself in the corner of some booth at the diner and spend most of the day not needing to talk to anyone. The lumpy booths gave him some privacy since most others preferred to mess around in the bar. The smell of coffee mixed together with the staleness of an AC unit that needed the filter replaced years ago had been pleasant. Reminded him of all the shitty motels he crashed in before he—  
  
He's stalling.  
  
He's stalling pretty pathetically considering how eager he had been to get out of this fucking room.  
  
Jesse grimaces at the closed door. The one that is now unlocked. That itch under his skin, the one that had made him long for something real and grounded has twisted into uneasiness. It's a test, because everything here is a test somehow. Probably to see if he'll follow directions. Or to see if he's been paying enough attention to know his way around. He can pass both of those things easy.  
  
But he doesn't like it. He knows this can't be a sign of trust—nobody he's seen appears to be the trusting sort—and he doesn't like playing games where he doesn't know the rules.  
  
But he also hasn't gotten this far by being a coward.  
  
Jesse steels himself and stalks out of his cell without another second of hesitation. He's walked into bars with scarier denizens—and they were always liable to shoot him if he didn't watch himself and shoot them first.  
  
Of course, when he walked into those bars, he usually packed lead on him.  
  
But that shouldn't be a problem, Jesse reminds himself impatiently. There’s all sort of rules here and most of them should keep him from getting shot.  
  
The mess hall is about half way full, but more and more people are trickling in. Some people, Jesse recognizes from his stints in questioning and their eyes narrow before they pointedly look away. Others scrutinize him openly as he crosses over to the food, eyeing his old definitely-not-regulation outfit and crappy hospital ward shoes. They obviously don't know about him, because there's mostly just curiosity and confusion in their eyes.  
  
Jesse makes eye contact with a few of the more obnoxious. Some knock it off and try to be more subtle. Others take that as an indication to look a bit harder. One guy's head actually swivels to track Jesse as he passes by with his standard issue breakfast and by then Jesse's had enough.  
  
"Take a picture, sweetheart," Jesse drawls. "It'll last a good deal longer."  
  
He doesn't allow himself to look back at the reaction, even though it'd make his whole week. That just leaves him open to an actual conversation and that is the last thing Jesse wants to deal with. He settles into an empty two seater table that is close enough to an exit and far enough away from everyone else, putting his back to the wall and picking at his food. It isn't salty enough, a little too bland and unseasoned. He eats a few bites anyway before he hunkers down to wait for his escort.  
  
They said end of breakfast. Jesse has no idea when that would be. He can't imagine it being quick enough.  
  
He sees Mari coming from a mile away, but it actually takes him a few seconds too long to recognize it as her. Her hair's shorter. In fatigues instead of Deadlock leather. Same weary expression.  
  
He clenches his fists when she sits down across from him. "That seat's taken."  
  
"Shame." She ignores his pointed glare and takes a few bites of food. "How are you settling in?"  
  
Jesse blinks, his hand running over where his holster should be. The absence tears at his calm. "Can't see how it concerns you."  
  
"Consider me invested in your future."  
  
"Well, isn't that sweet of you," Jesse sneers. He leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. "But you're ruining my appetite, so—"  
  
"You were already finished eating," Mari corrects, buttering a slice of toast haphazardly. "And this isn't a social visit."  
  
Snappy. Jesse can deal with that. He narrows his eyes and says flatly, "Then get down to business and leave."  
  
Mari tilts her head and examines him for a moment. She hums and withdraws something from her pocket. "Interpret this."  
  
Jesse glances down at the slip of paper she slides his way. The message is familiar even if he never got a chance to see it himself.  
  
_The enemy has the high ground. Scatter. Meet at Icehouse when safe._  
  
Jesse looks up and matches Mari's stare. "I already told y'all where it is."  
  
"You did. Now paraphrase."  
  
The calm orders dig under his skin, but he shoves that away. He's committed, he's not out of the woods, he's still got prison hanging over his head. He glances over the message again. "Flowery language, but I'm pretty certain high ground means _advantage_. Still, you might want an English major to look it over because there might be something I missed."  
  
Mari isn't phased by the acid in his words, instead keenly paying attention. “Go on," she prompts.  
  
"Scatter is obvious," Jesse huffs, fiddling with his fork. "Get the hell outta dodge, go hunker down, don't contact each other. The general stuff."  
  
Jesse looks at the last line.  
  
_When safe._ That is the info they probably want. Which means Jesse can ask a question of his own.  
  
"Was there actually any Beethoven?"  
  
Mari shows no confusion, but she takes a second too long to answer. "None. But you already knew that."  
  
"Just impressed," Jesse says. "You had everyone sold on it. Sounds so stupid in retrospect."  
  
"Business," Mari reminds.  
  
"Tch." Jesse stares at his food, thinking it through. "Since Colt didn't give a time, it means he probably knew y'all would find this. It's a way of weedin' out the stupid. Anyone who got out is getting further instructions from inside, but I doubt anyone will actually go near the place."  
  
"And?"  
  
"When safe is a joke," Jesse finally says in realization. And it actually is a bit funny. "There were only eight people who made it to that stupid rail line and all of them are dead from the sound of it. If Colt got the message out before he bit the bullet, then Icehouse is probably a glorified booby trap."  
  
Jesse laughs. "I'm pretty sure y'all have been chasing a dead end."  
  
Mari stares at him. "Why bother specifying this if—"  
  
"Because if anyone betrayed him, then he's got his revenge."  
  
Colt's petty like that.  
  
"But this shit is all moot," Jesse says. "He's dead and nobody else is as organized as him. If you give it a few months everybody will start killing each other without any effort on your part."  
  
Because Deadlock isn't the nicest place even with someone to beat it into line and make sure everyone gets their pound of flesh. Once people hear about the gorge, there's going to be a flood of deserters. And then without all the contacts and informants, it's going to be a pain in the ass to stay a few steps ahead of the law. Things will crumble. Simple as that.  
  
"You don't sound too broken up about that."  
  
Jesse rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning at the venom in his mouth, at the chance to score a hit or several. “You got the same ink on your arm, sis. You feelin’ _broken up_?”  
  
Mari snorts and the corners of her mouth curl up as she glances down to her covered arm where Jesse knows her tattoo is. It‘s the first time Jesse‘s seen her be anything other than blank or weary. Now she looks every inch the snake she is, smug and amused and a little vindictive.  
  
“Not at all.”  
  
There isn’t a single thing about this interaction that could come across as friendly. They’re barely edging on the right side of civil, let alone _nice_ , but Jesse isn’t here to make friends and this is the kind of shit he woke up wanting. Something familiar. Something distracting. Someone who bites back.   
  
“Color me curious—You usually conduct business at breakfast?” He‘s still got some questions itching at the back of his skull and if Mari isn‘t going to excuse herself now that she got what she wanted, Jesse‘s going to take the opportunity to find some of his own answers.  
  
“I’m on leave.”  
  
Jesse picks that apart for a moment, looking for an angle to exploit. “And you’re eating this shit willingly?”  
  
“Let’s pretend for a moment that you actually care," Mari allows graciously. “The answer is no, but I’m not about to tell you why."  
  
Jesse snorts. “Fine, fine, no bullshit." He keeps forgetting she managed to worm her way into the gorge. She isn’t going to fall for simple tricks like that. “But can I ask what a lovely lady—"  
  
Mari holds up a hand, wiping at her mouth with a napkin. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but I believe you said ‘no bullshit.'"  
  
Jesse isn’t even annoyed at being shot down. That was a solid quip. Eight-outta-ten on the scale. “Flattery ain’t bullshit,” he defends lightly, tilting his head. “Not that I was flattering ya. That’d be unprofessional considerin’ we’re working together now.”  
  
“Charming." She takes a sip of coffee. “You’re fairly good at this."  
  
Jesse sighs. If she isn’t going to play by the rules, then he sees every reason to return the favor. “Good at what?"  
  
“You already know the answer," Mari says.  
  
“I’m afraid I have no clue," Jesse feigns. “No secondary education. You’ll have t’spell it out for me."  
  
She narrows her eyes in examination for a moment before sighing, dropping her gaze back to her lap. “I’ve spent the past year doing this song and dance every waking second. Please do me a favor and don’t make me do it here."  
  
Jesse curls his hands into loose fists. Casual. Calm. “You don’t find it fun? Deceiving people?" He’s getting a bit too acidic. He needs to tone it down. But, God, that reminder pissed him off.  
  
Mari doesn’t flinch, though. She cocks an eyebrow at the not-really-question. “Do you?"  
  
Jesse leans forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “I asked you first."  
  
“You don’t actually care. You just wanted to hurt my feelings."  
  
She makes it sound so childish.  
  
Jesse drums his fingers against the table, eyeing the silverware. He‘s not used to talking to someone who can call bullshit so easily, Mari‘s reply only makes him pause for a few seconds. “Do you actually want an answer then? Or was that just your standard misdirection?"  
  
“Would it matter if I did? I doubt you would tell the truth." She shakes her head suddenly, correcting herself. “No, no, you wouldn’t address it at all—that’s too direct for your style. You like to dance around the subject. Even lying gives someone an impression of yourself, and you don’t leave that behind."  
  
Jesse swallows back the flood of defensiveness. That was her goal, after all: Putting him on the defensive. Addressing that barb just opens a can of worms that has no good ending for him. “You’re awfully confident in your analysis, aren’t ya?"  
  
“It’s what I do for a living. Correct me if I’m wrong."  
  
Damn. He can’t lie for shit.  
  
Jesse scowls down at his food. And then he laughs, the realization of how badly he just got played hitting him. “You’re good,” he admits, disappointment prickling at the back of his throat. And here he’d been hopin’ to scam some honest to god _information_ with the only person who’s willing to talk instead of interrogate.  
  
Mari frowns, all tired and somber again. “I was serious about what I said. I’d be glad to talk like a normal person instead of going around in circles."  
  
Talk like a normal person. Hah. That’s like showing your hand in poker and then praying that other people return the favor. And Mari has absolutely no reason to return the favor.  
  
Plainly asking for something is the easiest way to make sure that you never get it.  
  
Mari sighs. “If your desperate to overanalzye this, I can start off—"  
  
“Why are you bothering?" His insomniac episode must’ve decided to slam him all at once, because Jesse only says stupid shit like that when he’s exhausted. Mari’s much better at lying than he’ll ever be, so what’s there’s no point in asking that.  
  
But it’s already out, and despite himself, he’s curious to hear her answer.  
  
Mari tilts her head. “With what?"  
  
Jesse grimaces. More questions. “I thought you said—"  
  
She cuts him off. “I’m being serious. I’m not omniscient. I don’t know what you mean."  
  
Jesse squints, and then he sees a miraculous way out of this pointless rabbit hole. “Om-niss-ent?"  
  
“All-knowing," Mari explains shortly. She hesitates for a second before continuing, “It comes from Latin. Omnia is everything. Scio is the verb for know."  
  
“So you know Latin?"  
  
“Not really,” Mari confesses. If she’s surprised or suspicious about his sudden curiosity, she gives no signs. “I’ve forgotten a lot. It’s a bit useless unless you decide to go into academia.”  
  
Jesse thinks about his book, spine cracked wide open and lying facedown in the diner back in the gorge. “That’s like school and shit, right?"  
  
Mari nods. “Among other things. Research. Translations. Interpretation of classical texts."  
  
Jesse props his chin up on his hand. “Sounds boring."  
  
“I agree. I was always too utilitarian for that kind of career." Jesse doesn’t even have to ask for an explanation for that one, because Mari spies the look on his face and immediately continues with, “And utilitarian means that you value the usefulness of something above all else."  
  
Jesse’s eyes flick down to his tattoo.  
  
“So like Blackwatch?"  
  
Mari follows his gaze. Jesse drops his arm into his lap and leans back in his chair. She wants to see his cards? Why the fuck not? It’s not like he’ll win anything from playing a game. Mari won’t tell him anything that she doesn’t want him to know, not when she already knows how he operates.  
  
“What the hell am I doing here, Mari?"  
  
She stares at him for a moment. “My name is Morales. And you’re still under probation. I can’t give you sensitive information.”  
  
“But you could give me nonsensitive information.”  
  
Morales hums, staying quiet just long enough that Jesse begins to hope. “You’re too clever. It’d bite me in the ass.”  
  
“Hah.” Jesse runs a hand through the mess of his hair and scratches his neck. “Have you seen my hat, at least?”  
  
“I’m on leave,” She says, distinctly bitter. “Not allowed to touch evidence.”  
  
Jesse looks up at her, the meaning finally registering even though it should have sent up a red flag the size of Texas the first time she said it. “You said you were here on business,” he accuses.  
  
“Unofficially, yes. People aren’t asking the questions they need to be asking and my professional opinion is being side-lined until my psych eval comes back clean.” Morales sets her fork down, meeting his burrowing stare with a calm if somewhat annoyed expression. “This isn’t exactly secret since it’s already been through the rumor mill, but most people are of the mind that I should have shot you.”  
  
Jesse grits his teeth, his hand twitching just a little to his side. “And you?”  
  
Morales looks him dead in the eye. “I don’t regret my decision.”  
  
Jesse’s not quite sure how he feels about that one. “Not even a little?”  
  
“I’m not a person for grays. I do or I don’t. And I don’t regret letting you live.”  
  
That’s easy for her to say now, with everyone in Deadlock pushing daisies and her mission an overwhelming success. Jesse doubts she would feel the same if someone had gotten away or if one of her buddies died because of him. That would put a damper on her _do-or-don’t_ mentality.  
  
But that hadn’t been the case. Even with his best attempt, Jesse barely inconvenienced Blackwatch. He’d put some people in the hospital from the sound of it, but nothing more. It’s a wonder that they want anything to do with him when he’s so fucking useless.  
  
Jesse’s still trying to figure out what to say when he’s interrupted.  
  
“McCree, you need to report to the infirmary.”  
  
He’s getting sloppy. Jesse should have seen his escort coming, but he’d gone an let himself get distracted. His back had actually left the wall during this exchange and should never happen.  
  
Jesse stays still for just a few seconds, drumming his finger tips across the table top. One-two-three-four. Then he nods in acceptance and stands. "Pleasure doin' business," he says dully, nodding his goodbye to Morales.  
  
She watches evenly. "Likewise."  
  
At least he has quite a lot to chew on while dealing with medical shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot more planned for this chapter but i was in europe for three weeks and couldnt get much writing done. I didn't want to leave yall hanging for so long, so I broke it into two, which works better for the pacing anyway. In other news, how do y'all feel about Mari? I thought about just never bringing her up again, but that felt like a cheap cop out just to avoid alienating people who don't like OCs. Until her character arc with Jesse is complete it looks like she's here to stay, so I hope she's enjoyable at the least.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about that hiatus yall, we can expect bi monthly chapters from now on

The doctors visit leaves him about as drained as he expected. Lots of stretch this, breathe deeply, say ahh. Lot's of questions that he had to answer twice.

"No, I haven't been to a doctor since I was twelve."

"No, I don't have a shot record."

"No, I don't have a birth certificate."

The doctor sighs, his eyes critical. "I knew the South had issues in infrastructure but record keeping should have been maintained at least—"

"Who gives a fuck about birth certificates?" Jesse had snapped. "The schools all got bombed out in the early crisis, so why would anyone need proof of birth when the body is right there."

That earns him a grimace. A pained, "Do you know your birthday at least?"

Jesse had smirked. "What's the date today?"

The doctor had tutted, but he stuck that information down without another word. Thank heaven for small mercies.

Fuck heaven for everything else.

"Your ribs are crooked," he had said accusingly.

"That happens when they get broken," Jesse said with mock patience.

"Give me a rundown of all your broken bones. Some are going to need to be reset if done improperly."

The way he said it left Jesse feeling uncharitable, so he replied with an airy, "Well I've never broken my leg, so we can scratch that off the list."

And then the highlight of the hour, beating out the various stupid vision and hearing tests (apparently flash bangs will royally fuck up your hearing, who knew?), was this golden exchange that left Jesse feeling like shit.

"And I'm putting you on a specialty diet because you're malnourished even with the week you've spent here.” Doc gives him a sardonic once over. “Did they ever feed you in that gang of yours?"

"They didn't fucking starve me," Jesse had snarled, the question digging under his skin.

"Of course not," the doctor said in a way that left Jesse doubting his sincerity, "But when's the last time anyone made you eat a vegetable?"

His medical file had been chock full of ink by the time that had gotten finished. Jesse's arms were sore with a decades worth of inoculations and vaccinations and his ears were pumped full of reconstructive nanites that were steadily humming away, centimeters from his brain, repairing bruised and beaten ear drums. At least the doctor hadn't asked for his stupid gel back, because Jesse had no intention of returning it.

His escort popped into the clinic just long enough to tell him that he had free time until his lunch, no McCree you can't go to your room, it's being cleaned, just amuse yourself for forty minutes—

And so Jesse had walked around aimlessly for a grand total of two minutes before he started looking for an exit. Fire escape route maps were placed conveniently at high traffic corners, and Jesse spends a few minutes memorizing the floor plan. It’s a lot larger of a building than he expected. The parts he’s walked through are all part of a sub division of a much bigger complex.

He wonders how much chaos he could cause with a few fire alarms or maybe some actual fire—he’s got a lighter after all, why not use it? Set some paper towels ablaze in a few bathrooms, let the smoke detectors do the rest of the work. He knows how to avoid setting them off—can’t be that difficult to do the reverse.

He wonders if that would be enough to slip away.

And then he shoves that thought away. Too risky. Too many factors that could thoroughly fuck him over. If he didn’t succeed, there wouldn’t be any second chances. Reyes would decide it wasn’t worth the trouble to deal with him, and Jesse would probably wake up wearing orange. Reyes is the only bridge he’s presently got to his name, so Jesse isn’t really inclined to start dousing it with lighter fluid unless he’s got a _good_ reason.

And even if he did escape, where would he go? If he managed to get away in the mayhem, managed to miraculously slip away undetected and unpursued by an organization as trigger-happy with surveillance as Blackwatch, where would he go?

At the present, he’s drawing a blank.

Jesse refocuses on the map, locating his room and the mess hall and the room he answered questions in. He orients himself quickly—map reading is second nature to him at this point even if it was a hard-won skill.  The giant zero and the escape-route arrows pointing to stairwells that tip him off to the fact that he's below ground.

Jesse checks his directions one last time before letting his feet trace that arrow-lined path to the nearest exit. He runs his fingertips over the wall, and if he closes his eyes, it feels a bit like the gorge with all it’s second cold war era tunnels. Endless hallways winding underground, all of them leading to nowhere in particular.

He comes across one of those broadcasted fire escapes, neatly labeled for his convenience. He narrows his eyes because it can’t be this easy. Nothing should be this easy.

But he stands there, and no one stops him.

Jesse’s impressive patience runs out. He leisurely rocks back on his heels before planting his foot on the door and knocking it open. He looks both ways, halfway expecting someone to come screaming after him.

No one does.

Well, Jesse reasons, ain’t his fault if no one ever told him to stay put. He shrugs and starts climbing to the ground floor. It takes him three minutes before he comes across a window, and when he gazes out at miles of mountains and valleys, he curses under his breath for more than one reason.

Best case scenario, he’s in Colorado. Worst case scenario...

Well, fuck that, he’s already living it no matter what.

Jesse stares at the peaks, ignoring the various professionals who thankfully ignore him in turn, and part of him wants to climb as high as he can; just climb up to some crevice like he used to in the gorge when he just needed to be alone. The trek doesn’t look too unforgiving. He could hike to a pretty nice point in about twenty minutes if he hurried.

Of course, that’s only if he could get out the fucking door, which Jesse doubts he could.

“Excuse me, could I help you?”

Jesse raises his brows. Whoever it is ain’t Blackwatch—they got Overwatch emblazoned on their shoulders, and that confirms Jesse’s suspicions. The name had been a giveaway, but jumping to conclusions had gotten someone a bullet in the head pretty recently, so he wasn’t about to assume anything around here. But, yeah, nice for something to confirm the obvious since so one around here seemed inclined to illuminate the mysterious.

Jesse glances back out the window, the sunlight still edging on the soft side of morning, and he nods. “Yeah, you could. Where’s the nearest exit?”

“Just outside or—"

“Yeah. Outside."

If he’s going to push the limits on whatever game Blackwatch is playing here, there ain’t no point in stopping until he’s broken ‘em.

He follows the directions his Good Samaritan had hesitantly given, hand moving to tip his hat before he realizes he doesn’t have a hat to tip. The absence makes him scoff. He’ll be needing to make someone happy at some point, because he needs that particular item back.

Jesse’s heart practically skips a beat when he finds the exit. He squashes his hesitation and barges through the door.

Sun.

Heat.

The pleasant kind of warmth, the kind where the chill has sunk into your skin and you have to defrost to feel like a person again. Jesse’s missed this almost as much as cigarettes. He’s not even annoyed that he’s still trapped by this fucking building, because at least he’s _warm_.

He skirts around the edges of the giant courtyard, appraising the people walking through it. Fair share of soldiers, but mostly scientists and technicians. If he could get the jump on—

Not an option. He’s committed.

Jesse sighs and then just sits down, leaning his back against the wall. Not many people are braving the heat, and the windows are tinted for privacy. Not his privacy, sure, but there’s a childish comfort in not seeing another person.

_I can’t see you so you can’t see me._

He can hear the hollow pop of something alien and strangely familiar floating around the bend. Recognizable, but not known.

_Pop, pop, pop._

He realizes with a start that it’s pulse fire. Jesse’s heard the whispers about the new tech that O-watch has been working on. It has the black market pretty hyped up. That’s the only reason Montoya got within a hundred miles of the gorge; Colt didn’t want anyone else to get their hands on what would inevitably be a cash cow if they could reverse engineer the mechanics.

Jesse snorts. That fancy tech didn’t seem to do much good in a firefight, flashy aiming mechanics be damned.

“OT ‘IOR! ‘Ok it off!"

Jesse tilts his head, trying to distinguish the garbled shouts that replaced the steady, mechanical regularity of pulsefire. It does no good; the harder he strains, the less he actually hears. He keeps picking up on the soft hum of those nanites, rebuilding his head from the inside out.

That imagery makes him grimace. Jesse shakes his head and dispels that thought. He’s outside. He’s outside and he’s warm. That’s enough to lessen everything else.

Is he going to prison? Who fucking knows. Why does nothing about this situation add up? Who gives a shit. Those are questions he can unproductively mull over when he’s supposed to be sleeping.

Right now, he’s outside, he’s warm, and he’s feeling pretty damn drowsy.

The concrete aint the most pleasant seat, but it’s shady. The soft pop and crack of pulsefire distracts him from the ringing in his ears. It’s noisy enough and familiar enough that Jesse can let himself nod off into a light doze. It’s the best sleep he’s had in a long time and, when he starts awake, it takes him three seconds longer than it should to realize some very important details.

The sun is at a _very_ different angle than it had been when he passed out.

His face is stinging something fierce.

And someone is yelling at him.

Jesse raises an arm to shade his eyes and shakes the sleep from his head. “Huh?"

“Why did you not report to lunch?" There’s no opportunity to reply. “Stand up! We're both late for check in."

Jesse groans and rolls his neck around a few times to work the crick out of it. He rises to his feet, giving his escort a bleary look. “What time is it?"

“I spent an hour combing the ground floor looking for you," his escort snaps, impatiently motioning for him to follow. “And you were out here napping."

“Yeah," Jesse confirms happily, rubbing at his eyes. “Wonderful nap."

Mr. Escort’s face reddens at that, but he just holds open the door (back to the cold, back to the fluorescent light) and mutters, “Son of a—"

The next clock Jesse catches sight of broadcasts 1742. He’s slept about five hours give or take. It feels amazing.

“I wasn’t hiding, y’know. Can’t blame me for not lookin’ in the obvious spots."

They take a different stairwell than the one Jesse had found earlier, and he adds it to his mental map of the base.

“Please be quiet. I’m going to get raked over the coals for losing track of you."

“Sounds rough."

That reply get a suspicious look, but the poor sucker that Jesse is now naming _Escort_ just groans.

Jesse gets dragged back down to the underworld and the only thing that makes it bearable is that he gets to listen to that much-prophesied chewing out session. Watching a grown adult get scolded for losing him is pretty funny, at least until Jesse’s turn comes around. Then it’s his turn to bend over and take it.

“It won’t happen again,” Jesse says dully, keeping his eyes averted. Now isn’t the time to get combative.

“It had better not,” a Commanding Officer (and ain’t that intimidating title) snaps. “You missed a debriefing. The agenda has been sent to your bunk. If you aren’t too tired by the time you return to your room, read it.”

And normally that sarcasm would get several levels of glare or maybe some smack talk in return, but Jesse’s not in the mood to extend this chat any longer. He nods, face poker-blank. There’s a discontent stirring under his skin, an anger creeping up his throat, but he refuses to dig his hole any deeper.

However, he also refuses to take that insult lying down. He says “fuck you” to his _superior_ in the only way he really knows how.

With a crisp and detached “Sir, yes, sir.”

After that, Escort does his job and drags Jesse to dinner in the same area as the morning. His mouth is twisted like he bit into a particularly sour lemon, and Jesse understands the feeling.

“So," Jesse says after the two of them are safely out of earshot, “A debriefing?"

Escort glances his way for a second, unamused. Probably still annoyed about the nap. Jesse figures that’s fair. “Something about the progress post-raid. I wasn’t invited to sit in. I was just supposed to make sure you got to it."

Jesse closes his eyes and exhales slowly. He sure picked the best time to get sleepy. Now people are pissed at him and he lost out on the chance to actually know what the fuck is going on. He’s less concerned about the former and much more pissed about the latter.

Jesse resigns himself to the bitter feeling in his stomach. That disappointment is no one’s fault but his own. He falls into line, takes his tray with its fucking specialized meal plan without a word of complaint, and he tries to head for his same corner as the morning.

“Oh no.” Escort shakes his head. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Jesse scowls, because this day is shaping up to be a real bundle of fucking joy. “Really?”

“Yep.” Escort waves him over to a table that is _not_ empty. “Consider it an apology for getting the CO on my ass.”

Jesse shifts through all the counters and arguments he has at his disposal. “I wasn’t hiding.”

“You also weren’t where we agreed upon.”

“You don’t really want me there,” Jesse says reasonably. “I’ll sit in your line of sight.”

“Nope. You and I are buddies until you take your leave from the Mesa.” He cocks his head to the table and waves Jesse forward. “You don’t have to talk or whatever. We’ll leave early.”

And that concession is really the only thing that stops Jesse from ignoring him and going off to do whatever he wants. He’s tired. Not in need of sleep, not anymore, but just exhausted. He could sit where he planned and end up arguing for twenty minutes or he could eat and leave in the same amount of time.

Path of least resistance. Too bad everything here is a bit more resistant than he’s used to.

Escort greets People. People greet Escort. Jesse slides into an open seat and props his chin up on his hand. He’s been the elephant in the room a few times, but not since he had his growth spurt. Now he manages to last five minutes of painfully shallow conversation before he feels like he’s been sitting five minutes too long.

Well, if he’s going to be an issue, he might as well make the most of it.

Jesse takes a drink of water. Sets the cup down a few degrees too loud to be unobtrusive. “Is there something on my face?”

The woman who had been doing her best to burn a hole in his skull just narrows her eyes. “Yes. You’re sunburned.”

Jesse blinks. He prods at his cheek. The sting is mild. His skin is dark enough that he got off without too much of a problem. “I suppose so,” he allows, not sure where this is going.

“There’s aloe in the infirmary.”

It’s not said in the friendliest way, but it isn’t exactly unfriendly. Jesse can live with that. He nods after a moment and remembers his manners. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She stares a second too long, eyes flicking to the tattoo on his arm. “Not a problem."

That seems to give the table permission to breathe. People still shoot glances his way, but the atmosphere is less stilted. Jesse keeps an eye on the clock in the corner as he picks at his food. There isn’t enough salt.

Morales slides into the seat across from him. “Evening," she says.

Jesse can’t tell if he’s relieved or pissed that she’s here. He raises his eyebrows. “Do you have nowhere else to sit?"

“I know about as many people as you do. I was stationed in Swi—" She cuts herself off seamlessly, the catch in her sentence sending up a red flag, even though her expression betrays nothing. “So, to answer your implicit rhetorical question, yes, I want to sit here.”

Jesse laughs a little at that one, even if there’s nothing particularly funny. “You’re givin’ me a headache with all the vocab, sis. Gotta tone it down for me.”

Morales doesn’t even blink at the title. “I have full faith that you can figure it out. If you can’t, it’s probably not that important."

Jesse decides he’s relieved. If Morales can do anything, it’s provide quality conversation. “Lot of faith to have for—”

“I can already tell this is going to be something self-deprecating.”

Jesse shrugs. “Easy way to gain the upper hand. Either you get points for being funny, make other people overextend to correct you, or they take it at face value and underestimate you.”

“Manipulative,” Morales comments mildly.

“Pot and kettle,” Jesse shoots back. It feels a bit weird to talk shop about words of all things, but Morales is only person he knows who seems to appreciate it. Still, he’s not in the mood for a repeat of breakfast, so he leaps to another, much less contested topic. “How’s your psych eval?”

“Ongoing. Extended work takes a few months to recover from, even if you happen to be very good at compartmentalization.”

Jesse quirks an eyebrow. “I’m going to have to ask for the definition.”

Mari’s lips tilt into a smile, and it’s so unexpected and different from her normal blank page expression that he leans away without meaning to. “Compartmentalization,” she repeats, with that usual swallowed-a-dictionary tone. “A cognitive defense mechanism that is used to avoid mental discomfort caused by holding conflicting values, emotions, and beliefs. I’m using it incorrectly, so thank you for calling that one. What I meant by it is the ability to divide and separate your experiences; to deal with conflicting emotions and behaviors. It’s good to have in my kind of work.”

Jesse chews on that for a moment. “So, are you good at it?"

“I thought I was.”

Jesse takes in the mild tilt of her eyes and the even tone of her words. There’s quite a bit stirring in that sentence, but Jesse can only speculate as to what that _something_ is. As it is, he’s having a hard time compartmentalizing the fact that while banter is all fun and good, he’s sitting across from a person who lied and betrayed him. Who got Kneecap killed and then helped him bury the body. Who shot his meal ticket in the back, but for some reason couldn’t take two seconds to blow his brains over the wall before doing so.

But it’s all water under the bridge, he reminds himself.

Kinda tinged red and metallic to the taste, but—

 _Not_ the time.

“Well this has been wonderful and all,” he drawls, rising from his seat. “Have a pleasant evening.”

Escort looks up from their conversation. “Wait, you—”

Jesse cuts him off patiently, “Is there anything else you have to get me to?”

“No, but—”

“Then enjoy your meal. I can find my way back to my room.”

Morales watches him evenly. “A bit early to retire, isn’t it?”

“Unless someone is offering me a drink, then I’m not interested.” He can’t sit here a second longer. Everything is so alien that he feels like he isn’t even occupying his own skin. He’s chatting with a professional spy, surrounded by people who work for fucking _Overwatch_ , eating food specifically made for him by people who he can’t see, and he’s doing it without a hat or proper shoes. Or a gun.

Escort is wavering. Jesse timed it right then, because he did not look eager to leave his conversation. “You’ll go straight to your room?”

“Sure, man. Nothing else to do.”

“I don’t—”

“Great,” Jesse says quickly, fleeing without a backwards glance.

“McCree, wait. Hey, McCree!”

Jesse refuses to slow down. There are eyes looking at him from every direction, but he doesn’t spare them a glance. It would trip him up, and all he needs to do is get _away._ He white knuckles his exit, and when no one comes screaming after him once he leaves the caf, he breaks into a jog.

Jesse goes straight to his room, as promised. He goes straight to his room, scoffs at the debrief sitting neat and prim on his desk, digs under the mattress for his stolen lighter and cigs, and heads straight back out the door.

Sunset is the best time to smoke.

Jesse takes the closest stairwell he can find. It drops him in a windowless hallway, but that’s fine. He’s got time. He can read a map.

He can read a map well enough to see that he could walk ten minutes and take a loop to get back to his original spot, or he could cut through some laboratory and come out to a place where he could actually _see_ the sun. He’s not really feeling the scenic route.

His hands are shaking. Trembling, which is such fucking bullshit. He knows how handle nicotine, but stress has a funny way of intensifying the craving. He thumbs the wheel of his cheap zippo, too gentle to produce a spark, but enough to feel the grind up under his nail. That kind of motion will wear down flint quicker than anything, though. It’ll whittle and whittle away at it without a sign until you suddenly need that fire and find that all you’ve got is flammable liquid without a flame.

He shoves the lighter into his pocket before he breaks it.

Instead he examines at the ‘agenda’ he snagged from his room. Decent weight, so Jesse will have plenty to mull over before he had to return to his room for the night. He can’t focus too heavily on it as he maneuvers through the cluttered and cramped laboratory. The area itself is big, but there’s just so much crap inside that Jesse decides he’s a _definitely_ little claustrophobic. The air smells like hot engines and iron, and it sits heavy in the back of his throat. It reminds him of the bike garage, even if only a little.

He wonders if his bike is still there, forever un—

His foot crashes into a metal bin full of trash. A flash of white-hot pain radiates up his foot. Jesse curses under his breath. Who just leaves their shit all over the place, for fuck’s sake?! And what’s the point of wearing shoes if they don’t protect your feet?

Jesse kicks the bin out of his way with his other foot. It clatters loud and satisfying over the hum of generators. His little petulant moment of catharsis is cut short by a door slamming open to his left.

Jesse whirls around, hand going uselessly to his hip. He drops the folder, and it hits the floor at just the right angle to slide under table, conveniently out of his reach. He crouches to the floor and strains to grab it, but he can’t even get close.

“What are ya _doing_ down there?” Some guy yells at him with the heaviest accent Jesse’s ever heard.

_Fuck._

Jesse hangs his head and prepares for his second chewing out session of the day, because whoever it is sounds _pissed_. He just wanted to fucking smoke and watch the sunset, was that too much to _ask_?

“Well, don’ just sit there like a duck! Stand up!”

Jesse slumps and sighs once before stumbles to his feet.

And in front of him is the shortest man that Jesse has ever seen.

“Well?” One eye gazes accusingly at him with enough venom for six. “What are you doing?”

“Uh,” Jesse says intelligently. “I, uh, dropped something.”

The eye narrows. “I mean,” the man spits, jabbing some sort of mechanical tongs—nope that’s an _arm, what the **hell** —_ “what are you doing _kicking_ my equipment?”

Oh.

“It was an accident,” Jesse says, eyes darting between the prosthetic and the eye patch.

“Oh, I see,” He snarls in a way that suggested he really didn’t, “You accidentally ran into it _twice_.”

Jesse narrows his eyes, straightening his spine. He’s too old to be ducking his head like this. Just because he’s back at the bottom of the food chain doesn’t mean he’s going to forget his pride. “My apologies, sir. Never was the sharpest tool in the shed.”

The man rolls his eye, giving Jesse a critical once over. Then he pauses, staring at the ink on Jesse’s arm. “You’re Gabriel’s stray,” He mutters with a kind of weary recognition.

Jesse squints, because who the fuck is Gabriel?

The man sighs and shakes his head, turning to inspect the crate Jesse had abused. “Bah. Off with you.”

Yeah, Jesse would be just dandy with following that excellent advice, but he isn’t about to leave without getting that folder. He eyes the shorter man for another second, but Jesse seems to have dropped off his radar now that he’s got more important things to do, like check and make sure his trash is in tip-top shape. He grits his jaw and drops back to the floor, straining to reach that stupid agenda.

Jesse curses, because even with his cheek grinding into the ground, his nails won’t even brush the damn thing. And he knows his time is running out; the sun won’t stay out forever and he won’t be ignored for much longer—

Metal connects hollowly with his skull and Jesse glances up. A wrench is shoved under his nose, and Jesse jerks back before he can make sense of it.

“Well?” He and the man are almost at eye level like this. “Are you going to take it or not?”

Jesse carefully glances at the tool, and he’s not exactly happy to say that it takes him a second to understand. “Oh.” He takes the offered handle and swoops back down, dragging the agenda his way. He bites the inside of his cheek and offers a hesitant “Thanks” along with the borrowed tool.

The man rolls his eye and snatches it back. “Now shoo. Shoo!”

Jesse’s eyes widen, but he jumps to his feet and sprints out towards the door, wincing at the loud, “Be _careful_ with that!”

Why is everyone here so fucking _weird_?

Jesse meditates on that thought before deciding it’s useless. Instead, he shoulders his way out another door and shuts his eyes against the sudden glare of sun in his eyes. It makes him miss his hat.

He digs for his lighter and ignites a cigarette, shading his eyes with his hand. He’s standing on a deserted firing range, but there’s a decent view of the mountain range. He hops over a waist high barrier and makes his way towards a bluff where he could sit and rest against a few targets.

He’s got a decent visual all around him, so no one can sneak up on him. That’s enough to relax into. He breathes into the smoke and stares at the burning red sun a little too intently.

Jesse sighs and thumbs the seal on his manila envelope. It reads “CLASSIFIED” across the front in bright red, but is otherwise perfectly normal. He takes a deep and tears it open. A stapled packet of papers slips right on out.

He stares at the first page for a whole ten seconds. He slowly turns to the second. And then the third. And then he just flips through the entire packet without pause, the wave of uncomfortable annoyance and confusion and _anger_ washing over him.

Every single page is blacked out.

He drops the packet into his lap and scrubs his palms over his face, cards his fingers through his hair and then _pulls,_ because what the hell else could he do?

Someone probably got a great laugh out of this one, Jesse is sure. A real fucking comedian is somewhere on this base wasting his god given talent on fucking _Overwatch_.

Jesse grits his jaw before slamming his palms into ground beside him. “Fucking, stupid—” He cuts himself off with a groan, glaring at the taunting paper. One hundred and forty-seven pages of useless.

He almost lapses into a pity party then and there, but there’s nowhere near enough paper in his hands for that to be right. He taps his fingers against the ground and narrows his eyes. Throwing out one or two more unoriginal curses, he begins to work on tearing out that industrial grade staple, ruining his nails in the process. He tosses the scrap of metal over his shoulder. And then he sorts every single page of that document.

He's got a good chunk of the first thirty pages. Missing twelve though sixteen, but that’s fine. The rest are much more scattered about. Forty-eight through fifty-three. Sixty-eight through seventy-five. Eighty-two through ninety-one. One-zero-six; one-one-eight; one-two-four.

One-thirty-eight through one-forty-seven.

And on second glance not _everything_ is censored. Most pages have more blacked out than words, but some are nearly whole. Three quarters whole. Close enough.

He’s trying to look on the bright side.

If he approaches it in chunks, he can get a bit of a blurry picture of what is going on. That first thirty pages details casualties; no deaths on Blackwatch’s side as far as Jesse can tell, but extensive injuries. The casualties on Deadlocks side take up a bit more space. Jesse wants to skim that, but he forces himself to read each and every first name. The last names are all censored, and so are the ballistic report as to which gun (ergo, which person) did the job. Some names have a strange notation next to them, and try as he might, Jesse can’t figure out.

_Name/ Status/ Ballistic/ Other_

_John _____/ Deceased/__________/ CBS (Morales)_

 And that was Kneecap. Right at the top of the list.

Jesse reads the rest, and he marks the few who got taken alive. Under “other” they all have a directive to “refer to 104,” which Jesse is conveniently lacking.

He scans the paper three more times before he acknowledges that isn’t going to find the name he’s looking for. Colt is one of those names that got completely blacked out: no status, no mention.

Jesse swallows back the sour feeling in his throat and begins deciphering the other chunks. Mission statements. Documentation of expenses (and could Jesse just say, _holy shit_ ). Ending directives.

Summary.

“Operation ended in partial success. Some targets such as __________ evaded capture. Continual jurisdiction required to complete initial mission parameters.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 “Will continue operating out of ­­­________ until further notice.”

By the time Jesse finishes the whole puzzle, the sun had fallen behind the mountain range, leaving him in a shadowed twilight. He rubs at his temples to soothe the headache throbbing throughout his skull. His eyes ache from reading in the low light, but that’s normal as can be. He almost wants to read the whole thing over again, but he stops himself and shoves the stack of papers away.

It’s not going to do him any good to go obsessing over one name. Or wondering who managed to get away. Or thinking why it couldn’t have been him.

That’ll just drive him insane.

Instead, he reaches for another cigarette and shivers against the sudden chill that crept over him while he wasn’t paying attention. At least the stars are visible out here. It’s almost like being out at the gorge; lookout duty from one of the crests, with no people, no worries, just the sky and the wind.

Jesse’s just managed to pick out Orion before two somethings slam into the ground beside him. No warning, no whisper, just a sudden _thunk-thunk_ that makes his heart jump into his throat. Jesse almost fucking launches himself down the hill, rubber shoe treads skidding against loose packed dirt and rock.

It takes him a bit too long to recognize the figure in the dark, and before he can think any better, he’s yelping, "Where the fuck did you come from?!"

Because that shouldn’t happen, people shouldn’t be able to get that close without him _knowing—_

"From the shadows." Reyes idly spins Jesse's hat around on an index finger, calm as can be. "Heard you asked about this."

Jesse’s eyes widen as he makes a grab for it, but Reyes lifts the hat out of reach. "Cigs." He cocks an eyebrow, unamused. "I don't care how you got ‘em, but you aren't keeping them."

Jesse doesn't hesitate. He spits his half-smoked stick out and crushes it underneath his heel, wrenching the carton from his waistband and tossing it over. "Deal."

Reyes deposits the worn box into the pocket of his hoodie. He frisbees Jesse's hat over and the second it hits his palms, Jesse breathes a sigh of relief. He places it atop his crown, tugs it a bit lower, and the pressure of the brim across his forehead is more comforting and blissful than nicotine could ever hope to be.

"It's a nice hat," Reyes mentions. "Has your name embroidered and everything.”

Jesse cracks an eye open and shrugs, carefully uncommitted. "'s a present."

There's a cut on Reyes' face. It's carefully stitched, a few days old. It looks like it hurt like nobody’s business.

"I heard about your nap."

Something ugly blooms in the pit of Jesse's stomach. It's not exactly a threat, but damn if that's not what it feels like. "It won't happen again," he says.

Reyes' eyes sweep over him, x-ray intense. "Trouble sleeping?" He can’t tell if that’s an actual question or the smoothest sarcasm he’s ever heard. The question itself is sardonic, but there isn’t a sneer or narrowed eyes or anything that tells him how he should answer it. There’s just a six feet of ‘commander’ who expects an answer, and Jesse isn’t sure how to give the right one.

Jesse shrugs and stalls for time by crouching to collect his boots from the floor. They need to be cleaned and polished. "I suppose."

Reyes pins him with that intense stare for a moment longer before he turns without a word, motioning for Jesse to follow.

The second his back is turned, Jesse performs the fastest quick change he's ever done and leaves the hospital shoes for the firing squad to deal with in the morning. He sprints to catch up to Reyes, and either the man didn't notice or didn't care enough to comment.

Instead, he says, "We're wheels up in ten minutes. Hope you have everything you need."

Jesse frowns. "We're—"

"Heading straight to the tarmac. I stopped by your room, only to find you weren't there."

Jesse chews at his lip. Shrugs. He's doing quite a lot of that, but it feels like the only reaction that's safe to have. "The door was unlocked."

"As a safety precaution in case of a fire," Reyes corrects. "Considering I could smell smoke from the hallway, that was a smart more. Did no one mention curfew to you?"

Maybe, but if Jesse is being honest, he stopped paying attention about half way through the week. He's not about to say that, though. "Must have slipped their minds," he mumbles.

"Just don't let it slip your mind where we're headed. The security won't be as forgiving to midnight wanderings."

Jesse nods slowly. "And we would be headed to?"

"Switzerland."

Jesse's eyes widen. "So that would involve flying, I reckon," he mutters as he pulls the brim of his hat a bit lower on his head. He'd been hoping ‘wheels up' meant driving, but no dice.

"Not fond of air travel?"

"Never really had a chance to develop an opinion." He's had much more of a chance to develop one on plummeting to his death. "Is it, y'know, safe? Mainframe all secure against malware?"

“Blackwatch pilots organically. Even if we didn’t, we have military grade software. An AI isn’t about to crack it.”

Jesse bets that what everyone thought during the crisis. Didn’t stop the bogeymen from infecting most autonavs with a virus that conveniently forgot to factor _altitude_ into their trajectory. “If you insist,” he says, instead of voicing that thought.

“I do.”

Well, Jesse supposes that’s going to have to suffice, because he doesn’t have much choice in the matter. He tosses one last glance to the sky, the north star burning bold and bright, before he follows Reyes off to a waiting transport ship.

It’s only once the thing shudders into the air that Jesse realizes he left his report out on the firing range.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha its still sunday where i am so technically i fulfilled my promise! 11:59 on the dot!
> 
> Reviews litterally mean the world to me yall, and i love any sort of feedback! tell me what yall want to see in future chapters and i will do my best to make it a reality.


	5. Layover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In other news, Gabe has a super busy life that does not involve Jesse in some cases.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a HUGE thanks to all my commentators from last chapter! JoinTheWeb, RedDragon, Niki_The_Awesome, Silent Mouse, EmotionalTree, and ThinkingAtEarlyHours, your support meant the world to me and I really appreciate it! also, this is pretty unedited, ill go back and touch this up later once I get enough distance to actually see what is wrong with it lol

The sky looks even brighter up close, Jesse decides, and it’s a damn shame that he’s too busy panicking to appreciate it.

See, flying sounds a bit nice and fancy in concept, but in practice it’s a nerve-wracking lesson in patience and control. Jesse has to remind himself to breathe several times in the course of takeoff, which started pretty much the second Reyes dragged him on board. He had still been strapping in when the thing _shuddered_ into the air, which prompts him to ask the incredibly intelligent question, “Uh, is it supposed to do that?”

Reyes keeps his eyes trained on a holo-pad. “Yes.”

Well, that answered that.

Jesse fiddles with the straps over his shoulders and takes the opportunity to glance around the rest of the transport. Most people are passed out. The remainder are reading, the light from their tablets casting odd shadows over the walls and ceiling.

Jesse’s too pumped full of adrenaline to sleep and hasn’t got any sort of non-clothing item to his name, so he’s just shit outta luck. That’s too bad. Books are one of the nicer ways to pass time. Not all this eye-burning hardlight, but actual physical paper can be a godsend when there’s nothing else to do. Or when you’re trying to avoid all the other things you ought to be doing. He’s guilty of falling back on the latter far too often.

Something acidic creeps up the back of his throat. All his books probably got burnt to ash in the raid. Explosions that big don’t happen without fuel, and the dinner fit the bill area-wise.  He bets it smelt like shit. Fake leather burns acrid and sulfuric. He’s dropped enough cigarette embers on those old booths to know.

Jesse scrapes the phantom taste of gasoline fumes off the back of his tongue with his teeth. No point in wondering about it. If the first explosion hadn’t finished the place off, the fire in the tunnels would’ve done the trick. Blackwatch might’ve even encouraged that. They liked their secrecy. What’s a better way to keep it than to incinerate the evidence? 

Jesse takes a deep steadying breath. He should’ve finished his cigarette. There’s too much time to think and not enough to distract himself with. Jesse prided himself on not flipping his lid at every little thing, but anyone would be hard pressed to categorize 32,000 feet above sea level as an offhand detail. Thirty-two thousand feet and still climbing.

He drums his fingers against his knee; when that fails to somehow magically put him back on the ground, he settles for bouncing his leg. After a particularly rough shake of the aircraft that only Jesse seemed to notice, he whistles three and a half crooning notes.

Reyes looks up from his holopad for the first time the whole flight. Jesse’s tune dies like a snap to the neck—not an ounce of lingering. He invests himself in cleaning his fingernails, and he doesn’t glance away from his hands, not once, not at all, until his pulse slows.

A quick glance at Reyes shows that he isn’t paying attention anymore. He’s sighing long and hard, scrubbing at his face and rubbing at his eyes. He’s gonna tear his stitches if he keeps that up. He might have already done it. It’s not like Jesse can tell from this side. It’s not like he’s about to stare and get caught.

Slowly and (more importantly) silently, Jesse resumes his fidgeting. He traces the outline of the tattoo on the back on the back of his left hand, the half-lidded eye blinking up at him. Didn’t Reyes have a better place to sit? Like a captain’s quarters or something? Hell, Jesse would settle for it being anywhere, as long as it isn’t next to him.

Absence makes the head grow stupid. Jesse got exactly what he wished for. Now he’s gotta grin and fucking bear it.

Reyes sighs, the slightest bit of a growl coming out on the exhale. That’s the only warning Jesse has before the man rips away his restraints and stalks to the cockpit.

Jesse blinks at his luck. The door shuts neatly behind Reyes and a quick glance around the room shows that, yes, this is an unusual occurrence. Jesse avoids eye contact with practiced briskness, but stares bore into him all the same. Jokes on them, though. It’s not Jesse’s fault.

It hopefully isn’t Jesse’s fault.

It can’t be him. He hasn’t even fucking done anything except sit here and be quiet. And there’s a lot about this whole situation that deserves to be complained about, so his behavior deserves a goddamn golden star—not these looks that Jesse refuses to acknowledge, because whatever it is that has Reyes so annoyed is _not_ his fault.

It hopefully isn’t his fault.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the speakers overhead crackle. “We have a short layover in Gibraltar, so ETA has just dropped to thirty minutes. Please remain seated.”

Yeah, because Jesse just had a huge desire to hop up and—

“ETA has just dropped to fifteen minutes. Please remain seated.”

The ground tilts. The ground tilts at an angle that the ground is not supposed to be tilting, not at all. Gravity swings wide and drunken and jerking, and Jesse white-knuckles his shoulder straps because the nausea in his gut is promising a fun time if he can’t get a handle on his inertia.

The ship drops. He’s floating for a good two seconds, and it makes his stomach crawl up his throat. He’s in a flying fucking death trap and they are _not supposed to do this_. Jesse winces when several people are whip-lashed into consciousness. They like it about as much as he does.

Far too suddenly, the plane levels out into normal. His pulse doesn’t get the memo. He cracks an eye open—And Reyes is already back in his seat, tapping and swiping at his holo with a bit more flourish than needed. The slight scowl that Jesse inspired whenever he acted particularly annoying in interrogation is back and it is growing deeper by the second.

Jesse clenches his fists as tight as they can go before he forces them to relax. They still shake. He pins them between his knees and wills his heart to go back to normal.

He’s pushed motorcycles over two hundred on the regular. He’s done that shit while standing up just because he _could_. That never put him on the edge of his seat. It got his heart racing, but that only registered as exhilaration. That only ever felt like freedom.

 _This_ strikes him right in the throat with panic. Unwarranted, unwanted, stupid panic.

He’s aware the second someone new walks into the transport. It just takes him a painfully long time to realize that they’re coming his way. Or that Jesse knows this person. Afterall, what are the odds of there being more than one guy with that big of a mustache on that small of a body?

He’ll blame it on the air. Atmosphere is supposedly pretty thin up here.

Without any fanfare, the man marches up to Reyes and just starts _going at it_. Insults, barbs, the whole nine yards. There’s definitely something weird in the air. Nitrous oxide or cannabis vapor or something. Jesse looks around. No one else seems to find this strange. Infact, it’s almost like they’re all asleep or have headphones in. Or really good at pretending to mind their own business.

Jesse is going to take a leaf out of their book. He listens to whatever is going on next to him with polite detachment. Even when the two of them start dancing about the cowboy in the room, Jesse refuses to spare them a glance. It must work, because Reyes manages to half-way placate the other guy.

 _Half_ being the key word here, because if this conversation could get any more sour, Jesse would need to cut his tongue out.

“Everything is fine, Lindholm,” Reyes snaps at one point, “and if anything were to have been damaged, I’m sure it is well within your capabilities to fix it.”

“I’ve got better things to do than fix somethin’ that didn’t need breaking.”

Reyes shoots Lindholm a disdainful look. It’s a ten outta ten; completely withering and dismissive. Jesse’s been on the receiving end of it a few times. It’s priceless to see it directed at something else for once.

Lindholm scoffs. He looks between the two of them with a glare that Jesse ignores like a fucking champ before muttering, “Neither of you’ve got any respect for equipment.”

And before he can help himself, Jesse mutters, “Sounds about right.” Then he slaps a hand over his mouth and turns to stone.

The already angry man turns the full brunt on his glare on Jesse. Reyes glances at him from the corner of his eye and Jesse takes his cue to turn away, suddenly fascinated with the buckle of the empty seat next to him. Look at that spring. And that wedge right there? Beautiful work of mechanical engineering.

Reyes sighs. “Moving on.”

Jesse gives a short breath of relief before he launches into berating himself. What a stupid, stupid (did he mention stupid?) idea. His jokes ain’t gonna fucking fly here—No one’s got a sense of humor that will appreciate it. Now, Kneecap mighta found that hilarious, but he’s dead as a doornail. Mostly because he had a shit sense of timing.

Jesse shakes that thought away. Not the time. Now isn’t the prime time to develop a personality either. His get outta jail not-so-free card isn’t amused by it. Jesse grimaces and hunches his shoulders, pulling the brim of his hat as low as it will go. Being back at the bottom sucks.

Being back at the bottom with people who’ve repeatedly mentioned how much they’d love to see him rot in prison is just fucking wonderful.

“Look, I’m taking care of it. Layover will be twenty hours maximum.”

“Of course it will be,” Lindholm sneers, turning to go back to whatever hole he had been sulking in before this. “Yer _always_ on top of your timeline.”

 

* * *

 

Relief overwhelms Jesse the second the plane touches down on solid, solid ground. He fumbles with the straps across his chest, jerking at them when they refuse to come loose. At some point, Reyes takes pity on him and undoes the restraints with one clean yank. He makes it look so effortless that Jesse flushes in embarrassment.

The plane is pretty much deserted at this point, every other agent except the pilot bustling off with their rucksacks and gear to god knows where. Just him and Reyes remain. Jesse tugs his hat lower onto his head. “So, uh, I would be going to. . .?”

“You and I are going to have a chat about protocol,” says Reyes, cocking his head to the exit. Jesse grits his jaw, but he steps forward and falls into line. “This isn’t Grand Mesa,” Reyes continues. “People are going to be looking at you closely. Don’t give them any reason to find fault.”

Jesse steals a glance towards his surroundings. The air craft hangar ceiling looms overhead, steel girders gouging into rock. The area itself is like a giant warehouse, except one wall opens towards a brutal drop into the ocean below. Seems like a decent escape route if he’s ever feeling desperate enough.  “How close is ‘closely?’”

“Just be on your best behavior in public.”

Jesse taps his fingers against his leg. He’s managed to get away with quite a few questions. What’s one more? “And that would be—”

“Starting now. Save it for my office.”

Jesse shuts his mouth. He follows Reyes, and every time someone stops what they are doing to snap into a salute, his stomach sinks a little lower. There’s the inevitable glance in his direction, curious and questioning. He crosses his arms after a few of these glances, masters his expression into something blank after a couple more.

But they keep coming.

Jesse and unwanted attention are old pals. Old, hateful pals.

After wandering around fucking nowhere for a decent amount of time, unsuccessfully fending off nosy looks, Reyes lets himself into an office with a palm scanner.

“Commander Reyes,” a voice greets out of nowhere. “Welcome to Watchpoint: Gibraltar. We were not expecting you at this location. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Assign all categorized agents to temporary bunks. Agent Nicholson will need to be monitored at the infirmary until we leave.” Reyes shrugs off his pack and sets it down by his desk, practically falling into his seat.

“Understood,” The woman chimes in. “If there is anything else, please let me know.”

“Discretion would be appreciated about my presence. Thank you, Minerva.”

Jesse isn’t exactly a world geography buff, nor could he find Swisterland on a map if his life depended on it, but he knows a little bit of math and something isn’t adding up. “I thought you said we were going to Switzerland?”

Reyes looks glances up from booting up the interface on his desk. “We were until about twenty minutes ago. Now I need to stop a nuclear arms deal in Casablanca.”

Jesse’s eyes widen. “Shit, really?”

Reyes snorts. “No. Why would I tell you that?”

Jesse scowls and settles down into a seat in front of Reye’s desk. Should’ve seen that one coming. He walked right into it.

“I’ve got exactly twenty-seven minutes to spare, so let’s make this quick.” Reyes ticks off a thumb. “You still have a sixty-grand bounty on your head. I’m not touching that mess right now, so don’t do anything stupid and let that come back to bite you.”

Jesse squints. “You have me on paper. How is that not an issue?”

“God bless the U.S.A and its division of government,” Reyes says sardonically, swiping through the interface on his desk. “I’m not interested in unwanted publicity and there are only so many strings I can pull on a federal level. Just know that you are barred from most of America right now.”

Jesse rolls his eyes. “So is South America still open or—”

“Don’t get smart with me, kid. I’ve only got twenty-six minutes to answer any actual questions.”

“Not a kid,” Jesse mutters before he picks a different battle. “What else?”

“Secondly, quit pissing people off.” Reyes keeps multi-tasking, swiping at various holoscreens and administering directives as he talks. Trying to keep track of what he’s doing through the semi-transparent screen gives Jesse a headache. “You will get called out for it and it will not be fun. If you want to be petulant, don’t allow it to acquire a paper trail.”

“Noted,” Jesse says dully. He looks around the room. Bare walls and empty shelves. It fits Reyes well.

“At Swiss HQ, you can look forward to basic training.”

Jesse sits up in his chair. “I can already shoot,” He argues. “I don’ need to go through all that.”

Reyes laughs at that. Not just a snort or a humorless chuckle, but full on laughter. “Oh, kid,” he says, shaking his head in amusement. “Don’t let Morales’ suicidal tendencies go to your head.”

Jesse’s eyes narrow.

“You may have good aim,” Reyes acknowledges, “but you are in no way ready for active combat.”

“Been in it for years,” Jesse snaps. Reyes raises an eyebrow and that’s the last straw. “If I’m useless, why am I here?”

“Because I don’t have a use or desire for cannon fodder.” The printer lodged in one corner blares into life, loud and grating. “Which is what you currently are on a good day.”

Jesse scowls. If he’s cannon fodder, at least he’s recyclable. Jesse’s won his way through more shootouts or police raids then men twice his age. He didn’t get to sixty grand for nothing. He paid for it in blood and death. Basic training, he scoffs. He ain’t fucking basic.

Reyes takes his silence for agreement or submission or whatever and continues with, “Grand Mesa was a practice run for behaving like an actual recruit.” He looks up from his screen. “You failed. Quite miserably, too. Take this as a second chance and figure out how to fly beneath the radar.”

_Jesus, Jes, just shut up and bear your burdens. Don’ ya know that—_

“Children should be seen and not heard?”

Reyes nods. “Bingo.”

Jesse hasn’t got a reply to that. He really doesn’t need one. Through the speakers above him, Minerva chimes in, “Sir, my parameters decided you would like to be informed that Captain Amari is seeking your location. Was I correct in my assumption?”

Reyes shuts his eyes. His hands open and close over the keyboard, one-two-three times. When he opens his eyes again, they’re calm. Not angry, not annoyed, just calm and even and tired. “McCree, best behavior. Disregard anything that I said about practice rounds.”

“Uh, I can just be on my way if it’s—”

“No. Might as well get this over with.”

The printer dies down, leaving the air sill and empty. 

“Was I correct in my assumption?”

Reyes waves a hand to the back corner of the room. “Grab that and look through the first few pages to make sure everything is correct.”

Jesse blinks. He walks over to the only thing that would warrant a look through: The stack of papers sitting neatly on the printer. They’re still hot, and the slippery texture sends a pang up his arm. He grimaces. “Don’t you have all this on a tablet?”

“I prefer physical copies when I can afford them.”

Jesse ignores the oily texture. It’s just paper. He holds books all the time. This isn’t any different.

Minerva cuts in, “I will assume my assumption was incorrect. You may recategorize this indication at any time—”

Reyes holds up a hand. “No, Minerva, your assumption was correct.”

“Wonderful,” Minerva says evenly. “I will add this occurrence to my algorithms. Previous data indicates that you would appreciate remaining anonymous in these records. Was I correct in my assumption?”

“Yes. Disable access to my office.”

“Understood, Commander Reyes.”

Jesse wipes his palms against his jeans and rescans the page. “You’re still having trouble with Arizona?”

“I’ve still got a cleanup crew on the ground dealing with any loose ends. Arizona is proving annoying.”

Jesse chews on the inside of his cheek. “Y’all don’t have a snake in that particular boot?”

“No. You’re going to have to talk to someone while I’m gone. Minerva will patch you through.” Reyes suddenly sighs and throws a look towards the door. He drops his head into his hands. “And here we go.”

The door slams open.

Jesse’s seen a tornado precisely once in his life. His mom and he had been moving around Oklahoma for once, which was a good deal further north than usual. He’d woken up to the sound of thunder, light sleeper that he was, and crept over to the window, peeking through the blinds. He mostly got an eye full of grating halogen lamp, but beyond that, he could see the sky, and boy was it _black._ No stars, no full moon, not an ounce of watery light dappled through strips of cloud; instead it was black and gold and cut through with flashes of blinding, _blinding_ white.

The windows shook in their frames before his night vision recovered. Jesse pulled the blinds aside and pressed his face closer to the glass, straining to make out the formations he had seen in that instant of illumination.

And then over the rain pounding against the windows, over the howl and rip of wind against the trees, the sirens started.

That sound is what knocked him out of his trance. Or maybe it just drew him further in. It warbled up and down, slow and crooning; like a bird call dissolving in syrup. He backed away from the window and rubbed at his freezing nose, twisting the lock and opening the door. It’s like removing ear plugs after a long time; suddenly, everything is loud and sharp and _wailing_ , and his mom is yanking him away from the open doorway, ordering him to hunker down in the bath tub _right this second._

He does as he’s told, even as the sky rips open with a crack of thunder that makes the ground shudder. He does as he’s told, even with the image of the clouds furling and straining to stab into the earth, to gouge out the ground all the way to the bed rock overwhelming his brain. He does as he’s told, and even when his mom joins him, all he can see is the cyclone towering over him, twisting and spitting lightning.

He wants to see it again. He wants to look at it, even when the lights flicker out, and his mom hugs him, whispering words that he’s never heard her say before.

_Ave Maria, gratia plena, dominus tecum—_

Jesse’s only ever seen a tornado once.

The woman in front of him is a lot closer and a lot more dangerous than that tornado could ever hope to be.

She stalks in, dark eyes flashing and her mouth twisted into a snarl. “You,” She hisses “are unbelievable.”

“Hello, Ana,” Reyes greets in some tired attempt at pleasantries. “What brings you here on this happy visit?”

“You moved the strike up by a whole _week_ , Gabriel.”

Jesse’s eyes snap to Reyes. Funny. The report he looked through didn’t mention that little detail at all.

Reyes nods, calm as can be. “That would be my prerogative. I had no idea you were so invested in the timetable of my operations.”

“It was risky!” Ana shouts, “And you know it. I’ve been handling senatorial jurisdiction nightmares all week because you got impatient.

Reyes is unimpressed, his eyes slightly narrowed. “I don’t get impatient.”

Ana races on, not deterred in the slightest. “And don’t you think that I didn’t notice your requisition for the experimental neuro-prosthetics. They aren’t ready for human testing, so Nicholson will have to wait.”

Reyes launches to his feet, rising to Ana’s level with the fiercest scowl Jesse’s seen on his face outside of combat. “Nicholson deserves better than an honorable discharge.”

Ana doesn't flinch in the slightest. “Maybe she wouldn’t have had to deserve anything if you had waited!”

“You can’t withhold medical treatment from my operatives to spite me, Ana.”

Ana bares her teeth. “How _dare_ you suggest that? You know I wouldn’t—”

“—She knows the risks and it’s her decision!”

“She can’t know the risks if we haven’t even figured them out yet!”

“I’m willing—”

“—We don’t offer assisted suicide as a benefit!” Ana yells. “And that’s what it would turn into if things don’t go perfectly.”

“I don’t need your permission or oversight,” Reyes spells out.

“Clearly you do! Because the second I look away, everything goes to hell!”

“You really need to get a handle on your motherly instincts—”

“I would love to the second you quit behaving like a child! You can’t leave us in the dark when there’s a change of plans, Gabriel.”

“You had a convention to attend in Geneva.”

“And you jumped into the biggest op of the year without a proper field medic on your team.”

Reyes tries to rationalize it. “The risks of—” 

“—And I had to hear it from _Torbjorn_.” Ana shakes her head, frustration screwing up her features.

Reyes rolls his eyes and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “snitch” under his breath.

Ana slams her hands against the desk. “This isn’t a joke!”

“You’re right about that one. I don’t find it funny in the least.”

“Here’s a worse one,” Ana says in challenge, her words sharpening and sharpening until every single syllable is like a slice to the air. “Torbjorn also insists that recruited one of them. I know you don’t hire criminals, so I’m here for the punchline.”

“That would be him right there.” Reyes sells him out without much further ado.

Jesse backs right up into the printer with a loud and violent crash.

Ana whips around, words burning on her lips. They die out quickly. Her eyes rip over him, taking in his hat, his unpolished boots, his torn and patched together shirt, his _arm_. Her gaze lingers there and she says very clearly, “You _must_ be joking.”

“Sadly not.” Reyes waves an arm between the two of them. “McCree, this is Ana Amari, a colleague of mine.” Reyes shrugs when Jesse can’t offer much in reply. “He’s not the best conversationalist, but I’m sure he’s pleased to meet you.”

Maybe under less loud circumstances, Jesse would be pleased as punch, but as of now there’s too much yelling going on in too small a space for him to be anything other than tense. He clenches his fists and crosses his arms, looking away.

“Gabriel, you can’t be serious—”

“I can be. I’ve already handled the details, so I would appreciate your discretion.”

 “He’s—”

Reyes waves her off. “House trained, updated on his shots, good with kids—”

Jesse turns his surprised laugh into a cough at the last second.

“He’s a child!”

Jesse shoots a dirty look at her back.

Reyes tilts his chin up. “I’m confused. Are you objecting on account of him being a felon or a minor?” He doesn’t sound confused in the slightest.

Ana throws her hands up. “Both! Gabriel, how did this ever strike you as a good idea?”

Reyes nods. “A good question. McCree?”

Jesse glowers at him. A good fucking question indeed, because Jesse would love to know the proper answer. Presently, he’s just going to have to pull something out of his ass. He shrugs. “I suppose he reckons my debt to society is better paid outside of the federal prison system,” he drawls. “A sentiment I’m happy t’ agree with, ma’am.”

Reyes’ mouth perks up at the corner.

“Overwatch doesn’t take those with a criminal record,” Ana says. Her words sound a bit empty. “We aren’t allowed to.”

“Shame I’m not Overwatch, isn’t it?”

Her expression screws up. “Don’t pull that on me, Gabriel.”

Reyes tilts his head. “It isn’t your business, Ana. Don’t try to make it be.”

Ana stares at him for a second. She shakes her head, raising a hand to her face. Then she sets her shoulders, drops her hand, and zeroes in on Jesse. Her eyes burn still. It’s a dying flame. “And you? Are you willing to die for him?”

Jesse stares at her for a moment too long. He chews on the question and the inside of his cheek. “No, not really.” Ana whips around, ready to take that ammunition and run with it, but Jesse cuts her off with a measured, “But he ain’t really asking me to die. He’s asking me to kill—” Jesse’s eyes flick to Reyes. “—and I’m more than willing to do that.”

Reyes meets his stare, even and giving away nothing. Blank. Unbothered. This is his philosophy, Jesse has noticed: Wait and see. Give nothing away. Hold your cards close.

It’s a good one. It’s a familiar one.

Ana’s dark eyes glance between the two of them. “And you’re just perfectly fine with this?”

What a stupid question. It deserves a stupid answer. “Sure. Fine and dandy, ma’am.”

 Ana shuts her eyes tight before she lowers her head and turns away. “This is an awful idea,” she says tonelessly.

“I’m aware.”

She shakes her head once more. “You always are, Gabriel. That’s the problem.”

She leaves behind a quiet. A fragile stillness. A held breath that can’t decide when to release itself.

Jesse breaks it. “You didn’t tell anyone about me?”

Reyes rubs at his temples. “I’ve a bad habit of asking for neither forgiveness nor permission.”

Jesse’s mouth twists wryly. “Is that bad habit going to break our deal?” He’s got an escape route. Reyes is still trapped behind his desk. Jesse could make it.

“No.” Reyes sits back down after a moment and motions for Jesse to do the same. “Not if you can be a model recruit and give me no reason to.”

Jesse’s got politeness down to an art. He just hasn’t practiced it in a while. He’s been useful enough that he hasn’t needed to.

“Now that that’s over with—” Reyes’ comm rings. He glances at it before his expression sours. He brings the receiver to his ear and reports impatiently, “I received your intel, we are en route in exactly… twelve minutes.”

“I’ve been burned.”

Reyes rises to feet. “We can rendezvous—”

“Yeah, boss,” he interrupts, “I’m going to require extraction.”

Reyes nods, jabbing commands at his screen, pressing the comm closer to his ear. “How urgent?”

The distinct snap of gunfire drowns out the line for a few seconds. The voice laughs, breathless. “Well, don’t hurry on account of me.”

“Is the package—”

“Secure, boss. Made the swap before they reached Casa, and the bastards only figured it out because of—” The voice breaks off. More gunfire. More rustling. Jesse leans forward, straining to pick through the sounds. When the voice returns, they rush over their words. “I can stall for a few hours, but the package is laid over at the safehouse. I gotta run.”

“No, stay on the li—”

The call ends. Reyes grits his jaw before he places the comm down. Slowly, he swipes away at the hovering holoscreens with an open palm, leaving the desk blank and humming.

Jesse works the tension out of his jaw and swallows past the dryness in his throat. He’s got a bad idea. He’s got a really bad idea, but he’ll score points for offering and Reyes might already be thinking the same thing. He tilts his head and says, “You’ll be needing help with that, I reckon.”

Reyes looks up from his empty desktop, miles and miles away. Then he grimaces. “Not,” he announces with a disdainful shake of his head, “from you.”

That insult rings in his ears. Jesse ducks his head and clamps down on the anger burning at the back of his neck. Whatever. Stupid idea anyway.

Reyes snags a notepad from a drawer, scrawling a brief note over the surface in large, looping letters. He tears the paper out of its binding and folds it over twice. “Deliver this to the infirmary.”

Jesse steps forward and snatches it from his outstretched hand. “Got it.” He’s got no clue where that would be. He’ll figure it out.

Reyes grabs the report he had Jesse look through earlier. He shoos Jesse out the door and locks down his office, issuing last second orders. “Avoid Amari while I’m gone. Don’t talk to anyone important.”

Jesse sneers. “I got manners, y’know. Can even be _polite_ when the situation calls for it.”

“I’m sure,” Reyes says. He sounds sure of somethin’, alright. “Don’t talk to anyone in general,” he adds after a moment. “Just stay out of the way until I get back. You and I aren’t finished talking.”

“Joy,” Jesse says tonelessly. He stuffs the note in his back pocket. Questions itch on his tongue. Questions about the raid and about Blackwatch and about what Reyes wants from him. He grimaces and asks the only one that matters in the short run. “What happens if you die over there?”

The hallway is too quiet and too empty. “Nothing good,” Reyes says finally, “So don’t get your hopes up.”

For some weird reason, Jesse has a hard time imagining that happening. He trudges after Reyes, the heels of his boots clicking solidly against the floor. He tunes in and in to the precise timing of the noise, drowning out everything until he might as well be walking alone. His palms are still warm and oily, the phantom echo of hot ink seeping into his skin. He shakes them out and crosses his arms, wiping them against his shirt.

Ignore it. Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it. That’s the only solution. Ignore it and hope it goes away.

“Don’t you have something to do?”

Jesse blinks. He slows, stops. Reyes keeps walking forward, not looking back. Treading silently, his boots felt more than heard, his presence is less than earthly. Jesse watches, rooted to the spot, until the man rounds the corner, disappearing from sight and sound and existence. He waits another few moments after that. Waiting for what, he isn’t sure.

Jesse shakes his head and turns on his heel. He’s got a note to deliver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character introductions are picking up and boy oh boy am I pumped. Who was yalls favorite character this chapter? What was your favorite line?


	6. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah, remember all that foreshadowing?

 

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to find the infirmary. Fire escape maps don’t tend to label the rooms and Jesse decides he should take Reyes’ words to heart. No less than three people stop and ask if he’s lost. Jesse shrugs them off without a sound. His low-life manners might offend the general populace.

Reyes will have to forgive him for taking his sweet time. He never mentioned whether the note is time sensitive. Wouldn’t it be a shame if it just so happened to be urgent?

Jesse glances down to the note crumpled in his fist. The tight, strict cursive winks up at him like a beacon.

_—ng on, we wi—_

Jesse looks away and crushes the note a little tighter in his fist.

Whatever Reyes put him on messenger duty for, it isn’t going to be important. It’s a time-eater to keep him out of trouble. And he isn’t in the mood to waste any brain power on ruminating on useless shit. Infirmary. That’s the goal. And he’s not doing a sliver more work than that.

When he gets to the actual infirmary, he’s forced to quit the quiet game. Reyes never actually mentioned who to give it to.

Jesse flags down some white coat who looks too busy to ask any questions. “Hey, man.” He says. “Reyes wanted me to send this y’alls way.”

That knocks the doc off his train of thought. Judging by the tight expression, it wasn't a pleasant trip. The doc looks up in annoyance. “Is this about Nicholson?”

Jesse shrugs and offers up the note. “Couldn’t say.”

That isn’t the right answer, apparently.

“We’ve been trying to reach commander Reyes for the past half hour,” The doctor snaps. “So, if you know where he is, you need to tell me.”

Jesse raises an eyebrow. Last time he checked, he didn’t _need_ to do anything this jackass said. And if he’s looking to Jesse for that info, then he isn’t supposed to be in the know regardless. “I truly dunno, partner. How about you take this here note an’ find out?” He flicks the paper to the man’s chest with a careless toss.

The doctor fumbles with it for a second, scanning the message. He looks up. “Are you with them?” He’s got professionalism, Jesse will give him that. Behind it is distaste. “Reyes’ unit?”

“Who fucking knows,” Jesse mutters under his breath.

The doctor’s mouth tightens into a hard line. “I—”

“Yeah,” Jesse cuts in, rolling his eyes. “That would be me, sadly.”

The doctor narrows his eyes. “I’m not playing messenger.” He shoves the back to Jesse’s chest, and, _oh_ , does Jesse want to snatch his wrist and snap it like a twig— “She’s in room four. You can be the bearer of bad news.”

Jesse lets the doctor stalk out without another word. If he opened his mouth, some unpleasant words might just so happen to leak out. And that might just might so happen warrant a paper trail.

He takes a deep, calming breath. Note. He’s getting the note to—to Nicholson? Yeah. Nicholson. He’s going to get this fucking note to Nicholson. Then he’s going to fuck off to some uninhabited corner of the base and wait for Reyes.

Wait and wait and wait, because he doesn’t have a clue what else to do.

At least in Deadlock he knew what the hell he waited for.

He walks deeper into the infirmary, his eyes tearing over the walls for a number four. Second door on the left. Easy. He doesn’t bother knocking. It doesn’t matter. The occupier of that fancy hospital bed is too unconscious to call him out on the bad manners.

Should he set the thing on the bedside table? Does he have to wake Nicholson for this to be considered a delivery? Because that strikes him as rude. Aren’t you supposed to let sleepin’ dogs lie and all that? Might just be easier to—

Wait.

It hits him. Jesse knows this person. It hits him like ice water running down his spine.

He’ll forgive himself for not noticing sooner. It had been dark and understandably chaotic when they first made acquaintances.

Nicholson isn’t decked to the nines in tactical gear. She’s dressed in those paper-thin hospital gowns. Wires creep out and up from her skin. They lead to beeping monitors and biometric screens. It's like something out of a holomovie. One that he's seen before, but forgot the plot.

He knows this person.

After all, he shot her in the spine.

Jesse freezes in the doorway, his boots glued to the floor. Well. That certainly is. . .

Nicholson stirs. She tilts her head from one side to the other, discomfort pulling the corners of her mouth into a frown.

Jesse doesn’t even breathe. He takes two slow, careful steps to close the distance between them. His boots creak and click against the floor and his jeans scratch with the sound of denim on denim. The slower he moves, the louder it punches into his eardrums. But he’s just a step away, and then he can—

Nicholson cracks open an eye. It's full of annoyance. And then recognition.

“You.”

Jesse throws the note at her chest, turns and sprints back the way he came.

Not his job. Message delivered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so that hiatus was hell! and writers too! but heres the result... and its super short!
> 
> hence the title i guess?? I've actually got some more written and ill be posting another chapter sometime soon! 
> 
> Who do you want to see most next chapter? What was your favorite moment? I'd really love to know, so please let me know! <333


	7. fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse gets reacquainted with a missing chunk of memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (oh boy does this need editing but screw it ill clean it up later)

He’s in a bar that he’s too young to be in. Some themed gig that was too eager to offer free drinks and a lot of smiles. Out of respect or fear, he doesn’t know. He’s certain at this point that there isn’t a difference.

Jesse’s ready to spend the night wedged into a dark corner drinking water and picking at greasy bar food. He’s done that plenty of times before. The fries here actually have seasoning. It’s too bad his stomach is twisted into knots. He might’ve enjoyed it otherwise.

“Hey, Jes, get over here!”

Jesse twists to look over the back of the booth. Kneecap is waving at him from the back door. He’s in good humor. The smile is another knife hanging over Jesses’ head. Good humor usually means that he’s going to be the butt of the joke.

“Come on,” Kneecap repeats.

Jesse ducks his head low and does as he’s told.

OOO

Everything goes white.

And then it all comes back. There’s no boot digging into his spine. There’s a gun to his left and curses sounding off above him and people stumbling, clutching at their heads.

Jesse launches forward. He scrabbles on the ground like a worm. His ragged hands close around the gun.

OOO

Kneecap claps a hand over his shoulder and steers him outside. “Quit skulking,” he says over a laugh. “You did good out there.”

Jesse’s mouth twists. ‘Did good’ and ‘doing good’ are somehow so polar opposite despite the difference being one verb tense. He turns his head so Kneecap can’t comment on his lack of enthusiasm. “Thanks.”

There’s a few other people milling around out by the bikes, chatting and bantering away from the ear-splitting drums of the live band inside the bar. No one is drinking. At least, no one is drinking heavily. Nursing beers hardly counts as drinking in Deadlock. It’s barely enough to get you buzzed and definitely not enough to stop you from speeding one-eighty down the interstate.

Boots scuff against the white gravel. It glimmers like crystal in the light of some old floodlights that look out over the parking lot. The roadhouse is used to being full to the brim. It thrives on being crowded and messy and loud, and if you want that nice combination to appear, you need to be willing to shell out the big bucks for a place to put the cars. And the bikes. And the people.

As it is, Jesse prefers the parking lot. The brim of his hat shields him from the worst of the glare. The floodlights throw everything into migraine inducing contrast, but he’s quiet and faded enough that if he doesn’t open his mouth, he’ll fall right into Kneecap’s shadow. Being unnoticed is about the most comfortable state Jesse can think of. It’s right up there with being alone.

It’s a shame no one is drunk enough to leave him either of those options.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” Kneecap reaches into his pocket and pulls out a worn carton. He holds up a battered cigarette like a peace offering. Like a thanks.

Jesse stares at the stick. His mouth is tight, but he can’t just ignore it. That kind of rudeness won’t get a pass. “Ain’t these things, uh, illegal?”

That gets a huge laugh from everyone. The snickers burrow under his skin and buzz through his ears.

“As illegal as everything else you did today,” someone chimes in.

“I’ll bum one,” Cash says, holding out his hand.

Kneecap raises an eyebrow. “No, you won’t.”

“It’s another week until Muertos can bring in a shipment. I’ll owe you.”

Kneecap grins. “Now, as pleasant as that sounds, I’m not in the market for favors. Ain’t my fault you can’t get yer basic math right.”

Cash rolls his eyes. “He isn’t gonna take it. And he sure as hell ain’t gonna appreciate it.”

Jesse sets his mouth into a scowl. He knows when he’s being bated. He always has. He’s learned when it’s safe to ignore something and when you need to pay attention.

This ain’t bait. He snatches up the stick, much to everyone’s amusement, and Kneecap is kind enough to not hold the lighter over his head—figuratively or otherwise.

He looks Cash dead in the eye as he lights it up. Cash sneers and rolls his eyes disdainfully, and Jesse breathes in. His chest predictably and immediately catches on fire. He splutters wet, hacking coughs that do nothing to put it out.

“Oh, come on, Jes, it ain’t that bad,” Kneecap says, but he’s laughing too hard to be sincere.

That’s fine. Jesse is too busy coughing up his lungs to reply.

OOO

Jesse wastes no time. He fires at the first thing in front of his nose. The bullet rips through some bastard’s ankle. Point blank.

He shuts his eyes against the spray of leather and blood and bone. He shuts his ears to the piercing scream and the hollow _pop_.

The body drops, but Jesse doesn’t wait. He blurs into motion. He’s got a chance. It ain’t the time to waste it.

OOO

He finishes the cigarette. It mostly burns off on its own, the humid air weighing down the residue until Jesse can feel it sinking into his skin and hair. But he finishes it.

And next week, he asks for another. Kneecap grins and hands it over.

Come to think of it, it’s pretty much the only thing Kneecap never held over his head.

OOO

Jesse reels to his knees and dives to the wall. He can’t see ten feet in front of him and his head rings like a bell. But he’s in the same boat as everyone else. And he has a life vest.

That makes it ridiculously unfair.

The closest body is two paces to his left and pulling itself up by the wall. He pops one bullet in its chest. It doesn’t drop.

Oh. Tactical armor. He follows up with a double tap to the legs and a pistol whip across the face. That makes them collapse back against the wall.

That’s when the return fire begins. Scattered. Cautious. Everyone is too hesitant to shoot their buddies.

Good thing Jesse doesn’t have any friends to worry about.

He dives towards the opposite side of the tunnel. His shoulder crashes into the rock with an ache that he will feel in the morning—If there’s even gonna be a morning for him.

Bullets split the air, and he presses himself harder into the stone. He fires one shot around the corner blind. Just to buy enough time. Enough space.

Enough, enough, enough. Are there enough bullets in the world to get him out of this mess?

Judging by the way everyone around him is regrouping, the answer is a hard _No_.

OOO

The restaurant is some ugly French affair in the middle of downtown Houston, two blocks from the theatre district and three from the metro Police station. Finding parking is harder than finding the mark. Colt mentions Polovar’s name and waves a little white box, and the hostess obligingly leads the two of them back to the private dining area.

Jesse’s hat attracts attention as they snake through the fine dining tables, but not nearly enough for him to take it off. Besides, if everyone is looking at his head, they aren’t going to notice the gun tucked into his waist band. Misdirection. Say one thing and mean another. Draw the eye to the light so no one will notice the shadows.

Polovar glances up when the two of them walk through the doors, alone at a table set for three. He’s got the kind of face that looks good on holos and flat in real life. He’s got the kind of hands that show he never fought a day in his life. “Oh, I’m sorry, you’ve got—”

Colt sits down across from him. Jesse follows suit after he shuts the door.

Polovar tries again, a little more impatiently. “You’ve got the wrong room. My—"

“Oh, I know, your daughter and wife will be here in fifteen minutes,” Colt says. “Or that’s what she told you on the phone twenty minutes ago.”

Polovar’s eyes widen and his spine straightens. His voice changes, and it’s similar to his face. Good through a filter of presentation. Unimpressive without that assistance. “What are you talking about?”

Or it could be the fear. That can numb you like nothing else.

Colt shakes his head ruefully. “You should invest in hover-tech, my friend. It’s very difficult to get a flat tire if you don’t have to worry about the tires.”

Polovar rises to his feet, outrage blazing over his face. Denial boiling straight into anger. He’s quicker on the uptake than normal.

Jesse draws his six shooter before Polovar can voice any of that sudden anger. Kind of a shame. It would be interesting to hear what he sounded like. He levels the muzzle three inches away from Polovar’s solar plexus.

Jesse’s voice is dead even when he drawls, “I’d sit back down if I were you.”

Colt politely smiles at Polivar, and he leans back in his chair. He continues as if he had never been interrupted. “Thankfully, we are all so fortunate to be in the land of southern hospitality. I’m sure many a good Samaritan are helping out Jessica and Haley right now.”

Polovar turns from red to green quicker than a stop light. He teeters for a second, his hands white knuckled at his sides. Then he falls back into his seat like a marionette with its strings cut. His eyes are just as glassy and sightless.

Jesse has no sympathy for Mr. Puppet. He’s a person who could be bought if Colt considered it worth the price. Not many morals. Just a lot of self-interest.

“I know it’s rude to stop by without warning, but it’s very urgent, Oscar. You, my friend, are in possession of a few things I need.”

Polovar is two seconds away from throwing up all over the fancy china and silverwear by Jesse’s guess.

“I could never in good conscience withhold you from your family,” Colt assures, “so let’s settle this quickly so you can enjoy your celebration.”

“What do you want?” Polovar grits out.

Jesse laughs a little under his breath. The defiant tone would be funny if it weren’t the dumbest thing he had heard all evening.

Colt doesn’t falter at the hostility. “Your phone, if you would be so kind.”

Polovar hands it over without a fuss.

All bark. No bite.

Colt links the port of Polovar’s phone up to some databrick. He watches evenly as the download counts up, bit by bit to 100%.

“They’ll know if there’s a security breach,” Polovar mutters.

Colt glances up, unimpressed. “I’m sure they will.”

He sounds sure of something alright.

The phone chimes a moment later, and Colt beams down at it. He graciously returns Polovar’s phone. “Oscar, my friend, I cannot thank you enough for your help this evening.” Colt stands and claps Polovar’s shoulder. “Now, I’d hate to run, but these are busy times. Give my best to the wife and have a lovely anniversary.”

Jesse keeps his gun trained on Polovar, but the man makes no move to stand or so much as twitch as Colt walks himself out.

Yeah. Colt has that effect on people.

OOO

Jesse breathes in, sharp and sudden. The barrel of the gun bucks in his hands, and the air burns the roof of his mouth like ozone and bleach. He’s skittering and jerking like a fly pinned live to a cork board, every millisecond on inaction tearing and ripping at his brain.

He worked his way out of one corner, and now he’s in the middle of another.

_You’ll get a better deal if you surrender._

Mari promised as much. A better deal. A better deal how? Because he killed people. He killed them right fucking in front of her, bullets flying faster than death. And she hadn’t been amiable to that. She’d been not amenable to that in the slightest.

Minor or not, six people is a noose. It’s already wrapped around his neck. He’s just playing keep away with the tail.

And the fun thing about keep away is that someone loses eventually.

Jesse swallows back blood and gasoline. A better deal, she promised.

Jesse nearly sends all his bullets flying when he unclips the magazine. All eleven of them. He jams the mag back in place. Eleven shots. Nine bodies. Not the most he’s ever done.

But it’s over the limit, and that is going to melt his head: Send his brain streaming right out his nose. Blood is already running over his tongue, running sick and sour and metallic. A flood more isn’t going to make a difference. It all comes from the same place. It’ll run just the same from a bullet to the brain. And that’s what he’s earned from this mess.

At this rate, he’s picking his poison.

Picking his tree and tying his knot.

Jesse grits his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut.

A better deal. Mari promised.

But, as this whole day has shown, Mari is a dirty fucking liar.

OOO

“Don’t get any ideas,” Jesse says tonelessly as he slumps back into his seat, keeping the gun trained on Polovar’s chest. He starts the eighty second countdown in his head. “It’ll get ugly.”

Polovar shifts his gaze from the door to Jesse. “You’re a minor,” He says slowly, recognition catching up with him. He laughs a little and shakes his head, his mouth twisted into a grimace. “Of course you are.”

Jesse gazes back, blank as a brick wall. At sixty seconds, he repeats exactly what he rehearsed earlier. “A dinner this fancy should take about two hours. Don’t leave before that. Don’t make any calls. Don’t send any messages. We’ll know if you do.”

“Does your boss expect me to just keep quiet?” Polovar narrows his eyes. “He’s playing a dangerous game.”

“Shut up,” Jesse replies thoughtfully. He takes a glance at the wine menu. The prices dip into triple digits about half way through. That’s just excessive.

Polovar is angry enough to try again despite the obvious dismissal. The gun isn’t enough to dissuade him. “If my family—”

“I’m sure your wrath is somethin’ to take into consideration,” Jesse says with a sneer. “I can take a message if you want.”

Just forty seconds.

Polovar stares at him for a long moment. “I hope you don’t intend to stay for dinner.”

Jesse actually laughs at that. A sour, short laugh, but it’s the first thing he’s managed to find funny this entire day. “I reckon the food won’t be to my liking.”

“Good. I don’t need my daughter falling for another boy.”

Jesse has to admit; the flattery is a nice touch. It just isn’t nice enough for him to bother. “Save it for someone who wants it.”

The little composure Polovar managed to gather dissolves, leaving behind something desperate. Like he’s been informed of some bloody tragedy, but he doesn’t have the specifics needed to move into mourning.

Twenty-seven seconds.

Jesse stands it for about another two. “God,” he snaps, “They’re fine! They’ll continue to be fine as long as you just do as you’re told.”

That wipes away the fog over Polovar’s eyes. But when his mouth opens up, he sounds just as empty as before. “And what happens when that no longer becomes a possibility?”

Jesse shuts his eyes. Shakes his head. He doesn’t have patience for stupid questions. “Then you better be prepared to face the music.”

OOO

Jesse shuts his eyes. Interlaced in the counterfire, in the aftermath echoes, is the same old song and dance. Nothing new. He’s alone. He’s going to die. No one is coming back for him.

Nothing new.

And that’s his cue to pull off another miracle. Miracle-worker, magic-maker, one _lucky_ son of a bitch; he’s got all sorts of names for it and only one has every really fit.

The rush builds and builds in his ears, until he is drowning in the pulse of his blood, in the slow fire of the sun sinking into his skin. It might be night and he may be burrowed into the earth halfway to hell, but the sun pools around him as if it were mid-day. Mid-day light, heavy light, something-thicker-than-water light.

His eye aches and his head rings, but Deadeye’s ready. Deadeye’s ready, and it’s hungry.

Jesse turns around the corner as slow as a waltz. Red bleeds over his vision. Shouts and commands and orders ricochet off him. Seconds count here. Seconds count as lifetimes, and Jesse’s lived nine times over in the space of a breath. But he’s learned how to be patient. His gun hangs loose in his palm. It waits for death to point and Jesse to pull.

The patience is wasted.

The red never turns. It never bleeds away into bone white.

Eight bodies, eleven bullets, and fine webbed plasma stands between their eager introductions.

The red sears into his brain. It streams down his face. It cuts and carves tracks into his cheeks.

And it doesn’t turn white.

Fire sinks hotter and hotter into his skin, and there is no release. No resolution. No revelation. Just eight bodies, eleven bullets, and no chance left his way.

The wind in his ears hisses, _fire, fire, fire—_

_behindyou_

The prickle at the back of his neck is his only warning. Jesse spins around on the back of his heels. Lightning and ozone burn millimeters away from face. Behind it is red. Body nine.

His hand is too low. There isn’t enough time.

Deadeye doesn’t care.

_fire!_

He squeezes the trigger the instant before electricity arcs over his skull.

OOO

Polovar leans forward. His voice is soft like nylon. “Is that how you live?”

The sympathy in his voice makes Jesse want to gag. It reminds him of cheap grape juice and excessively expensive wine. All fake and rancid in one way or another.

Jesse pins him with an unimpressed stare, and he rises from his seat. “That’s how we all live.” Jesse takes a moment to tuck his gun back somewhere hidden. “You should get used to it.”

Maybe Polovar had a witty reply to that one. Maybe it made Jesse hesitate as he walked out the door. Maybe it gave him something tough to chew on for the next month.

If any of that is the case, Jesse can’t remember it.

* * *

 

He jerks awake wedged into the back corner of some computer office. He’s got no clue how he wound up there.

“Great,” Jesse mutters to himself, trying to orient himself in the dark. “Fucking perfect.” The takes his hat off and yanks his hands through the tangles in his hair. He takes a few steadying breaths. When he’s calmed down enough to stumble to his feet with his rubber limbs, the overheads light blare to life. Motion-sensor activated. Which means he’s been sitting still for a little while. That isn’t reassuring.

The clock on the wall to his left reads 13:42. He found the infirmary at—six am? Six thirty?

That’s bad. That means he’s lost time. Or that he went to sleep. Either way, he’s got not a clue where those hours went. And the odds of him getting them back are slim to none.

 Jesse takes stock of his memories. The plane. Talking with Reyes. Amari. An hour or so spent wandering around in some half-assed quest for the infirmary.

Nicholson.

That hadn’t been mentioned in the report.

Had it?

Jesse wracks his brain. He hadn’t been paying attention to the right side of the casualties list. He’d been looking for something else. But his name. His name hadn’t appeared in reference to that. Was it just blacked out like the other censored details?

He shakes his head and drums his fingers against his leg. He had forgotten. He’d forgotten all about that. When Reyes had mocked him, a million years and a week ago, he’d just assumed nothing that come from that stupid stunt with the grenade. No time bought, no injuries dealt. No bullets finding their mark.

It’s becoming clear that isn’t the case.

Which begs the question of how the hell Reyes managed to swing this. Because Jesse’s shot at cops before. If Blackwatch had half the loyalty of some back-water police crew, he shouldn’t currently be walking around as a recruit. He should be fucking dead.

That thought gnaws at him before he smothers it with a short laugh. He’s always dancing on thin ice, ain’t he? What else is new?

Focus. Jesse shakes his head. He can whine and bitch some other time. Preferably one when he’s certain that he didn’t do anything stupid while he wasn’t paying attention.

Nicholson. He found Nicholson. And then he booked it in the opposite direction.

God, he’s such a fucking coward. She clearly _couldn’t_ get up. You need some key components for that to happen, like, y’know, a _spine_. And Jesse had been kind enough to liberate her of that a week previous.

Jesus. That must’ve been a bloodbath. It’s hard enough to do so much as _think_ when something as bright and loud as a stun grenade goes off at ear level. Treating that kind of injury? It’s a miracle and a half that Nicholson is breathing.

And that miracle is probably the only reason _he’s_ breathing.

Jesse makes a promise, then and there. He’s not going to do anything stupid. He’s going to be a model citizen. No more trouble. He’s going to be the best decision Reyes ever made, because he’s about two inches away from a cliff instead of usual safety net of twenty-four.

No more trouble. It can’t be that hard.

* * *

“No, no, no! You can’t just use hand soap to wash your hair.”

He’s in a cafeteria with a tray full of french-fries and chicken. He’s arguing with a child about his hair. He has no idea how he got there.

“Yeah, you can,” Jesse argues. “Soap is soap.”

Now that he thinks back on it, it probably had something to do with the promise of food.

“No, it isn’t!” Fareeha says right back. “Shampoo has different things in it.” She’s surprisingly invested in his hair for some reason. It’s looked better, Jesse will admit. It was overdue for a haircut even before Blackwatch. Now it’s getting long enough to pull back into a tiny stub of a ponytail.

“Look, I’m telling you that it works just as well as anything. Dawn? That shit is multi-purpose.”

Fareeha shakes her head. They argue back and forth about it for another ten minutes, the stupid kind of petty argument that’s enjoyable because no one actually cares about the topic. Hair bleeds into hat, which bleeds into a whole other mess of things: His age, which gets a lot of attention; His favorite book; What color he likes the most.

Lots of uncomplicated answers. A few complicated questions that he can sidestep without much notice.

It’s kinda nice. Like walking straight after picking through a minefield. Not a care to where your feet fall, because there isn’t something buried and ready to blow up in your face.

Fareeha’s got that quick on the draw wit and a kind of instant familiarity that leaves no room for misjudgment. She’s got no wariness for minefields. Just a sureness that makes her say what she means and mean what she says.

That’s why he’s immediately on guard the second that certainty bleeds away.

“So, uh, how’d you get on base?” She’s got a desperately casual expression that trips a wire in Jesse’s brain. She’s fishing for information. It’s clear she doesn’t have much practice. “I mean, I’m here because mom’s here. So, uh, do you, uh—” She stumbles over her words, not clear on where to go from here.

It’s so blatant that it’s soothing.

“Don’t fill the silence,” he says. Fareeha’s eyebrows narrow, searching for the meaning and clearly not getting it. That’s fine. It’s not intuitive, so he can’t blame her. “When you want to know something,” he clarifies, “you have to make silence. And the other person will fill it once you stop talking.”

“I’m not nosy,” Fareeha says, quickly catching onto the fact that he clocked her being nosy. “I was only wondering.”

Jesse shakes his head and waves away her concerns. “I’m not annoyed.” And the funny thing is, he really isn’t. He got food and a half hour of talking to someone who doesn’t despise him out of this arrangement. A few dodged questions is pretty affordable. In fact—

“I’m just giving you a tip. If you come at it head-on, they’ll clock you from a mile away. You gotta circle around it until you can find an in to what you want to know.”

Fareeha tilts her head, but she nods. It isn’t that big of a jump. She had the basic idea, but her subtly wasn’t up to scratch. “So, how was the drive up here?” The airy small talk is at odds with her dead serious expression. No poker face whatsoever. At least she’s quick on the uptake.

Jesse debates the harm in telling the truth. He finds none. “Well, my flight took an unplanned detour. It was rougher than sandstone for about forty seconds, and I’ll tell ya, I was not happy about. . .” He drones on, filling in all sorts of details. It’s a practice round. He’ll take it easy.

Fareeha narrows her eyes in thought. “Did you see the ocean? It’s really pretty when you fly over.”

Jesse nods in appreciation. Trying to narrow down the aircraft is clever. “Nope,” he replies. “Sad to say that my ticket over here didn’t have any windows.”

“That’s too bad,” she says. “Uh, did you get bored?”

Jesse pops another French fry in his mouth. “Nope. Have a lot of practice at doing hours of nothing.”

Fareeha scrunches up her nose, wavering for a moment. “This isn’t any fun,” she says. “Why can’t you just say it?”

Jesse shrugs. “People lie.” He tilts his head for a moment, and then corrects, “Well, I lie.”

“Boo,” Fareeha says dully. “I know. Mom lies all the time.”

“I’m just giving some advice that I would have wanted,” Jesse says. “People knowing what you want to know is the quickest way to never find out what you want.”

Fareeha rolls her eyes. “Or the fastest.”

Jesse shakes his head. “Not if they’ve got something to hide.”

Fareeha’s eyes flick up in interest. “So, you’ve got something to hide.”

“See, you’re getting the hang of it.”

Fareeha’s grim face cracks, and she smiles a bit. She takes a bite of her food with a sort of philosophical consideration, like the answer she is looking for is hidden in between the lines of chicken.  “Advice aside, I’m just going to ask.”

“Ask away,” Jesse says. “I might lie.”

Fareeha makes a face at him that’s only halfway annoyed. “What’s your tattoo for?”

Jesse stills. He glances down, but his arm is covered by his sleeve. So she means—

“The eye?”

Fareeha nods.

“Uh, well, it’s an eye,” He says a bit haltingly. “There’s no real double meaning there.”

“I can see it’s an eye,” Fareeha says. She stares at him like he’s dense. “I mean, what did you get it for?”

Jesse examines the back of his left hand. The ink is a dull blue-black, and the design itself is only an inch or so wide. A droopy eye with an iris too large and a pupil too hollow. He got it, what, two years ago? No, this was the one he got after that shit show in Houston.

He shrugs. “It’s a nickname I had.” That’s the truth. It isn’t the answer.

Fareeha quirks an eyebrow. “Your nickname was ‘eye?’”

 “Deadeye,” Jesse says. “But I figured it might be good luck.”

Fareeha nods knowingly. “My mom has a tattoo for protection. She won’t let me get one yet, but I’m going to get something as soon as I can enlist.”

Jesse blinks. “Enlist?”

“In the Egyptian Armed Forces,” Fareeha says. She grins suddenly. “I’m going to join Overwatch too. But I want to start out in special forces and get CO status before I transfer, because then I can negotiate my department.”

Jesse taps his silverware against his plate a few times before he sets the fork down. “You sound awful certain of that.” Fareeha might be certain, but Jesse sure as hell isn’t.

Fareeha nods again, this time decisively. “I’m going to continue the family tradition. Everyone before me has served.” She punctuates this statement with a sip of apple juice through a bendy straw.

She’s got the kind of easy going smile and bright eyes that look like they should be on posters for hospitals or summer camps or start-up schools. Hopeful. Happy.

“Are you sure?”

Fareeha blinks up at him.

“’Cos, you—uh, I dunno, it just doesn’t. . .” Jesse fumbles for the word. For the sentence. For anything to end on, because he has no idea what he even started to say.

Fareeha purses her lips, eyes a little bit narrowed. “Not you too.” Jesse raises his hands, trying to placate her, but she shakes her head and stares him down. “I’m not a baby. I know what I’m doing.”

“I never said that you were or that you didn’t.”

“But you thought it.”

Jesse shakes his head. “I just think—you have a long while until, uh—"

Fareeha cuts in. “You’re not that much older than me,” she says. “And you’re already on a base and in a department.”

Jesse quickly determines that he should have, at no point, ever told the truth about anything, ever.

“I mean, it’s not what you’re probably thinking,” he says. Then he shuts his eyes. The bad taste in his mouth is probably just due to how far his foot is wedged up in there. “It’s just that, uh, your mom probably has a good reason to not want you going into the military.”

Ok, yeah, that’s better. Turn it back on them. Make them talk about themselves. Put them on the defense.

That’s how you don’t end up getting screwed over by a preteen in what was supposed to be a friendly chat.

Ana Amari slides into a seat across from him, ducking to press a quick kiss to the top of Fareeha’s head. “My thoughts exactly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so i know this is a long time coming but i just want to thank all of my reviewers! i havent forgotten you and i really appreciate all your amazing feedback. This chapter is dedicated to you who commented last chapter!
> 
> what was your favorite line this chapter? favorite moment? did you like the story mode in the beginning? letting me know is a huge help and i love any and all feedback!


	8. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jesse has no clue what other people want from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear theres a reason this is out so late and that reason is that i am a mess

Jesse once saw someone factory reset an omnic.

It was some Los Muertos bot that didn’t have the sense to install a kill switch. All it’s organic buddies all bit the dust earlier, courtesy of the fact that frag-grenades were Deadlock’s business and Muertos had forgotten to respect that. An EMP knocked it out and someone got the bright idea to hi-jack it’s processing units while they downloaded any relevant information.

And after that download, it was a Saturday night and people were bored as hell. Listening to glitch-wave Cuban slang get spit only got so many laughs. Unmodded omnics got more mileage. Some people got a hard on for the whole “built to serve” ideology. Made them feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Made them feel powerful.

Jesse still doesn’t get the appeal.

He minded his own business, though. Not his problem. Not the place to say anything about some tin can. Especially not with a full house in his hand and a six hundred bucks in the pot. He was making bank tonight. Maybe enough to get grav mods on his bike if he played his cards right. Maybe enough to exchange his savings for a different kind of paper, even if he doubted that gamble would work out well for him.

He’s tipsy. He can afford to be a little whimsical.

Oh, no: Jesse McCree didn’t take his eyes off the table. He kept his poker face firmly in place.

But he still had to hear it.

A few sparks. A few lines of basic code. A few curses for the trouble and then a round of laughs when the indicators blinked and began reinitializing. That’s all it really took. Manufacturers made it easy to reset and reassemble bots like this one. All the glo-tats and vocal mods in the world couldn’t change that omnics were built to be replaceable.

“How may I assist you?”

Hollow. Tinny. Not a dash of the distortion-modded overlay that had spat the foulest and most creative curses Jesse had heard in months. Not a sliver of personality or life or understanding. Just the basic purpose inscribed deep-deep in it’s protocols.

“How may I assist you?”

It’s one ugly fucking magic-trick. Miraculous in a sick, terrible way. It’s the same as killing and then making the corpse dance for your amusement. Jesse’s never been the position the make the latter reality. He can’t say he finds it a nice spot.

Jesse folded. He didn’t leave fast enough to dodge comments and jeers—

_Kid, where you going? What is it, your bedtime?_

—Jesse stands up in the same instant that Amari sits down.

“I have to go.”

Fareeha looks between the two of them in alarm. “Hey, wait—”

Jesse sidesteps the bench and gives her a nod without making eye contact. No contact, no connection; it makes it easy to ignore the hurt in her voice.

Amari says, “I’m sure it could wait.”

Jesse is just as sure it can’t. There may be an order hidden in the evenness of her words, but it’s not one that he’ll listen to.

 _Don’t talk to Amari_. That had been an order too, and it came from someone with a lot more leverage over him. Were there any bets about which one he was gonna follow?

“Wait, wait, wait,” Fareeha shouts behind him.

Jesse lengthens his stride and sets his spine. People’s stares tug at him like spider silk and their whispers dog his heels. It’s good that he’s used to being around the center of attention. If he weren’t, he might do something like hesitate or look back or actually sit down out of some sense of embarrassment.

He used to be willing to do anything to avoid a scene. Even before Deadlock, back when it was just him and his mom, she had done things quietly, without any fuss. Never yelled. Never attracted attention. She had taught him to do the same. How to blend in, how to notice if someone was looking too closely, how to hide.

_“Don’t make a scene, mijo. We can’t afford it.”_

All those lessons are itching in his ears as Fareeha _yells_ across the room and as everyone in the entire cafeteria turns their nosy eyes his way. He’s not making a scene, but he is a part of it. Not his fault, but still his problem. He doesn’t turn and he doesn’t let himself stop, no matter what Fareeha says behind him, no matter how he can feel Amari’s gaze burning into the back of his neck like a brand.

He’s learned how to ignore a scene. He’s learned how to ignore people.

That doesn’t mean it don’t stress him out like nothin’ else.

He makes it out. He escapes the cafeteria and books it down a hallway. He’s all sprints today. It’s, what, only the second time he’s run away like a coward? The day’s still young. Maybe if he’s lucky, he can avoid some other unpleasant encounter and make it a three time streak.

Actually, if he gets really lucky, he can just find some place to hide. That would make running irrelevant. It’s usually a lot more successful and has a lot less consequences. People aren’t as pissed if they just can’t find you as opposed to having to chase after you.

Jesse tries to get himself hopelessly lost, taking turns and climbing floors at random. Tries. There isn’t enough room in this place. It’s too small. Too contained. The closest he can get to secluded is a little room above ground. He can see the sea from the door, and he can see anyone coming and going from a mile away.

It’s a little like the gorge. He had places he could climb up to—on top of buildings or up on the rocks—and he could see for miles. The canyons looked bigger than God from way up high. He’s not nearly as tall here, not in any sense of the word, but it’s familiar. Like if he kept going, he might see red rock and blue sky and nothing will have changed.

It’s familiar and it’s different. There’s no dust. The air is tinged with salt and loaded with the heavy crash of waves. Seagulls cluck at him. They’re a lot smaller than vultures. A lot cleaner too. There are cliffs nearby, but these suckers have endless water, not desert, at the bottom.

 Of course, if you’re high enough up, it doesn’t matter what’s waiting at the bottom. Water and bedrock both break bone. All you need is the right velocity, and _snap—_

He’s getting morbid again.

“Mr. McCree,” the speaker above him interrupts politely.

Jesse jerks his head up at the intrusion, his eyes narrowing and his throat going tight. He’s not hiding well enough. Of course, it’s hard to see something watching you if they don’t exactly have a body.

“I have been instructed to request your presence at meeting room A on sub-level one.”

He grimaces. There’s something keeping track of every step he takes inside this base. The walls have eyes, the halls have ears, and that means any chance of hiding has just jumped out the window and flipped him off on the way down. He shakes his head, brushing off the creeping feeling of self-pity. It doesn’t do him any good to start getting mopey. “What for?” He asks, tired of walking into every situation blind.

The bot—Minerva?—stays quiet for a few moments. “I cannot access the purpose of this reservation. However, it is urgent that you report to meeting room A on sub-level one.”

Jesse rolls his eyes. The bot’s voice isn’t immediately recognizable as artificial. The reverb and inflection are only a few shades shy of natural. It’s an appreciable amount of dedication to get something that sounds that real, and he would’ve been fooled if not for the earlier introduction. However, he can hear the programming that went into making such a conversational AI falter whenever it has to repeat itself. The fill-in-the-blank ‘requests’ are so similar that he doubts the AI behind the voice can actually think too deeply about what it’s saying.  He’s talking to a glorified chat-bot. And, yeah, while that’s just plain annoying, it lessens his anxiety about being watched enough for him to mutter, “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get there.”

The bot lists off directions in that bland customer-service way, and Jesse doesn’t bother to shoo it away. It’s processors might not even be able to catalog it.

He makes it to his meeting, and—surprise—it’s all about tedious shit.

 

* * *

 

Jesse drags a hand down his face for the third time in ten minutes. Like every other time, it has done nothing to get rid of the headache building behind his eyes.

“No, no, He’s got nothing to do with Cali. He’s all about El Paso.”

“But earlier you said—”

“ _El Paso,”_ Jesse spells out, clapping his hands together so that the man on the other side of the screen might finally get it. “El _—clap—_ Pa _—clap—_ So.”

“—that Michael Odera—”

“There’s more than one fucking Michael in the gang,” Jesse snaps. “You said something about Jimenez, so I got confused.”

The man sighs heavily, glancing up from his tablet to give him a weary look. “Are you certain?”

“ _Yes_ , I’m sure,” Jesse says, irritation making his mouth sharper by the second. “I know who he is and he ain’t gonna be in fucking California unless—unless someone tells him to move.”

The interrogator—sorry, ‘interviewer’— and his weary look turns right over into the realm of critical. It’s entirely undeserved. Jesse has been a fucking saint for the past thirty minutes, and he would appreciate a little credit for his trouble. Preferably Master, Visa, or Discover Card—hell he’d take fucking bitcoin at this point—so he could go out to some bar and buy himself a drink. Or several. It’s his due payment at this point.

“Are you _certain_?”

Jesse rubs his forehead to hide his less-than-civil scowl. “Yeah. Unless you know somethin’ I don’t, I’m positive.”

“Hmm.” The man on the other side of the screen looks down at a tablet in front of him. He drags an image up and out until it flickers up on the holo-display. “What do you know about. . .”

It’s easy to talk about places and businesses. It’s simple to draw out routes and label safehouses on maps. It’s downright cathartic to sell out contacts and politicians and judges. They were bought and now they get to pay for it. That right there is just justice. Served a little cold, sure, but Jesse is bloated on his misery and he could use a lil’ company.

It’s naming people with ink that makes his stomach twist.

Oh, he doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t withhold. He sure as hell doesn’t _lie_.  

He’s still got his own skin to save. And any of those options puts him right back where he started. Actually, it puts him in a worse place than when he started. He’s a rat. He’s a snitch, a snake, a sellout. Jesse McCree is well aware of what happens to people like him, inside prison or outside, and he ain’t about to let that happen.

He’s committed.

But that shouldn’t ever come up. Reyes told the truth. At least, he did about his job offer. Jesse is bought and paid for, and as long as he continues to be worth the price tag, he’s secure.

He’s secure, Jesse reminds himself, even as he keeps close track of the Blackwatch agent behind him. They probably wouldn’t try anything. Maybe. If they knew anyone who Jesse had shot recently, they might get some bright ideas.

_Come on, Jes, what th’ boss don’ know, th’ boss don’ mind._

Well, if they do try something, he’s got a fork hidden in his sleeve and he knows exactly where to stick it.

The man on the screen scans his pad one final time before nodding. “Our findings confirm your information. Thank you for your cooperation.” He’s so mechanical that he could be another bot for all Jesse knew.

“’s been a delight,” Jesse drawls. The feed cuts without another reply. Boots shuffle and fabric shifts behind him, and Jesse rises. The last thing he wants to do is spend another hour in the company of his judgmental babysitter. “A pleasure as always, so I’ll just be on my way—”

And Ana Amari is standing in the doorway.

The agent straightens to attention, the surprise not enough to knock them out of military protocol. “Captain,” they greet, all attention and deference.

Amari nods their way. “At ease. I need a word with Mr. McCree.”

Jesse jerks his eyes over to the agent. There’s always something else to do right? Wouldn’t Reyes make sure that—

“Of course.” The agent flees and Jesse only just stops himself from flipping them off.

The agent wouldn’t see it and Amari would, and he’s more concerned about the later than the former.

Amari gestures to his recently vacated chair. “Please, be seated.”

Jesse judges the space between him and the exit. Over ten feet. Still. He’s got three inches on Amari even if it never feels like it. He could push past her and pull another disappearing act. It hadn’t been successful the first time, but luck comes in threes. He could make it and then—

He could, he could, he could.

Everyone here already knew what he was going to do.

Jesse sits.

Amari considers him with those pitch-dark eyes of hers before pulling up a chair as well, keeping herself between him and the exit. He sees the resemblance to Fareeha that he missed earlier. The same proud nose and rich skin. The same intensity that commanded attention. But where Fareeha had been an open book, Jesse has no clue what Captain Amari might be thinking behind those stormy eyes. An educated guess told him it likely wasn’t anything good.

“You’ve met my daughter already,” she says casually.

And she leaves it there, as if that were a question that required an answer. Looking at him like she _expected_ an answer. It’s uncomfortable enough for it to be completely on purpose.

Inanely, he wonders how Mari managed to speak civilly to him whenever he pulled the same bullshit. She had full rights to punch him in the face if he was half as annoying.

Jesse stows the thought away for later consideration. “Yep,” he says shortly. He could leave it at that, but Amari probably wanted to deal with him as much as he did her. He’d save the both of them time if he just gave her something to work with. “I didn’t know she was yours, ma’am.”

Amari blinks slowly, stretching the silence out like a garrote wire. “And now that you do know?”

Ah. So that’s it. Jesse’s seen enough pissing matches over territory to recognize a veiled threat. It’s a good thing he’s fine with taking a loss on this front. “Well, I reckon I won’t bother her again.” Jesse settles back in his chair, waiting for a few open threats and then a dismissal. He’d be glad for it at this point.

“That will hurt her feelings,” Amari says, instead of anything that made a remote lick o’ sense.

Jesse’s face scrunches up in confusion. “Uh,” he says intelligently.

Amari nods in cerebral agreement and continues, “She was very upset with me for ‘scaring you’ away. She said you were a very polite young man and that I needed to apologize for frightening you away.” She tilts her head—like a bird—and when he doesn’t reply, she says over a sigh, “But if you have no intention of ever speaking to her again, then I suppose I am allowed to forego my apology.”

It takes Jesse a moment to follow. Actually, he isn’t following this at all. But he nods and parrots back, “I suppose you are.”

“So, please let me know if I will need to apologize.”

Considering that Jesse doubts she’s actually sorry for anything, he’s not about to demand it. And besides, being sorry has never counted for shit as far as he’s concerned. “No apologies needed, ma’am” he says. “I won’t be in the way again.”

She gives him that look again. Unblinking. Cool and detached. “Fareeha will be disappointed. She liked your hat.”

Fareeha doesn’t have the power to send him to prison, so her feelings are the last thing on his mind. She might be the only person he’s spoken to all week who hasn’t either wanted to kill him or fuck him over for various reasons, but twenty minutes of conversation and a plate of chicken strips isn’t a bond strong enough to break his heart. He wasn’t about to start writing letters, even before Amari’s intervention.

In fact, she’s probably just saying that to see if he’ll backtrack. Or if he’ll get any smart ideas. She’s made her distaste plain as day, so he’s not about to go against that. It just isn’t worth his time. Jesse shrugs and says, “She’ll get over it. I’m not that funny.”

“I could believe that.”

Jesse frowns before he decides to take a leap of faith and try to— _how did Morales say it?_ —talk like a normal human being. “What do y’want, ma’am?” He questions it plainly, because no one talks to him unless they want something.

Amari returns the favor immediately, and he appreciates it. “Do you know where Gabriel is?”

He appreciates it. It’s a good reminder as to why he never tries this honesty bullshit.

Jesse looks her squarely in the eye as he lies: “Not a clue.”

Amari only hums in response.

Jesse shifts in his seat and says, “If that will be all—”

“It isn’t.”

Jesse’s teeth click together with how fast he shuts his jaw.

Amari stares at him like a judge with no need for either a jury or an executioner. She’s got all her priorities lined up, and it appears the first one on her list is to let Jesse know exactly how welcome he is. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He could stand anger or scrutiny, but her cold and impartial judgement puts a sour taste at the back of his throat. Like she’s reading him instead of seeing him. “Take it up with Reyes,” he says, because that’s the only defense he has to his name.

“I will. In the meantime, I feel as though I’m missing something.”

_Join the fucking club, sister._

Jesse narrows his eyes at the fake-neutrality in her voice, at the way she keeps trying to make him pick his poison. He prefers to be led by people who aren’t in the mood to ruin his life. Right now, that list has a very limited number of people, so Amari is going to have to learn to deal with her disappointment. “I get the feeling you don’t miss much,” he replies tonelessly.

“I don’t,” She agrees, “Which is why I would appreciate your honesty.”

Jesse’s head twitches in the slightest bit of a shake before he can stop himself. Amari may not react to the slip, but he wouldn’t put any money on her not noticing it. She’s got a sharpness to her that Fareeha lacked—and Fareeha hadn’t been obtuse in any sense of the word.

Jesse blinks. That’s the only indication of the gears turning in his brain that he allows. Amari’s sharpness can’t do anything if Reyes is acting as a buffer—and from their little power-struggle earlier this morning, Jesse’s got the feeling that Amari’s annoyance isn’t a deal breaker for his contract with the devil. She might have eyes cold enough to freeze him where he sits, but that doesn’t mean she has anything else over his head. And whatever Jesse says here, she already wants him gone. She said as much.

So it really doesn’t matter what he says.

Jesse straightens his shoulders and raises his chin. He’s bought and paid for, and Amari can’t do shit about it. And that means she can’t do shit to him.

“I will endeavor to do my best to tramp down on any desire to lie,” Jesse says, meeting her judgement with a little coldness of his own.  “I’d hate to waste your precious time with falsities.”

He reckons that he can hear the florescence buzzing above his head in the quiet that follows.

Amari narrows her eyes. “What did Gabriel offer you?”

Jesse considers being difficult in the same manner that he considers a cigarette: it’s never a question of _if_ , but _when_. He drums his fingers over his knee before sighing. He’s got manners. He’s polite. “A job.”

“Why?”

And that was it—that was the crux of the matter. It’s the question that ate Jesse alive in his spare time and then ghosted in the background every other second: He shot at people. He failed to do anything impressive besides slow some people down. He hadn’t been cooperative—he’d intentionally been a pain in the ass. He turned down his plea bargain. If it was Mari’s bright idea, well, she’s under psyche eval last time Jesse checked. He’s got no clue what Reyes saw that he liked.

Jesse can shoot the wings off a fly, but that ain’t a skill that warrants a get-outta-jail free card. On someone like him, it’s what warrants a no-parole stay at a max penitentiary. And it wasn’t about the information—he had no way of insuring Reyes would hold up his end of the deal, and there was nothing stopping him from backing out once Blackwatch got everything they needed. And Jesse doubted they needed much more out of him. He’d sung like a canary, and he’d made it a point to sing very well.

When Amari said that he shouldn’t be here, she hit it on the nose. By all rights, he shouldn’t be sitting here. He should be dead or worse.

But that ain’t Amari’s business. Jesse shrugs and drawls, “Must a been my sparklin’ personality, ma’am.”

“So you bartered for this job.”

Jesse weighs the description in his head. It’s a bit lacking, but he nods all the same. “You could say that, ma’am.”

“’Sir’ will do,” Amari says crisply.

That brings the beginning of a sneer onto his face, and Jesse looks away. “You could say that, _sir_.”

Amari raises an eyebrow, disdain somehow making her eyes softer. Less guarded, if only because she thinks he’s a moron. “I’m beginning to doubt your sparkling personality is to blame.”

“Guess I’m jus’ not your type, then.”

As much as he enjoys all this delightful conversation, he really hates all the delightful conversation. That’s all he’s done for weeks—talk to people he’d rather ignore about shit he’d rather not think about. He’s trying his damnedest to avoid people, and no one seems inclined to let that happen.

“You didn’t barter,” Amari says suddenly. Jesse’s eyes jerk back over to her face, and it’s one part confusion, two parts wading your way through a complicated math problem. You didn’t make an offer,” she murmurs, like it’s somehow a revelation. “

Jesse doesn’t correct her, and that appears to be all the confirmation she needs. Amari breathes out, slow and lingering. “What did he offer you in exchange for a job?”

“Dental benefits,” Jesse says. At Amari’s blank stare, he adds, “And I wouldn’ get to spend the rest o’ my life in prison. But it was more the former than the latter.” He’s repeating himself, but something about that just strikes Amari as strange.

“The justice system of your country may be conservative,” Amari explains slowly, as if she were schooling a child, “but minors receive greater leniency. Did you have legal council to aid you in this decision?”

Jesse can’t help but restrain a snort at that one. There wasn’t a lawyer in the world who could take his track record an’ argue for ‘leniency.’

The furrow between Amari’s eyebrows deepens, and Jesse puts two and two together: she doesn’t know what he did and what he’s done. If she’s gotten her hands on a report, it must be as redacted as his was. Jesse’s been in her unenviable position of not knowing what the hell is going on, and that makes him more charitable than he’s got any right to be. “I killed six people in front of a verified witness,” he says plainly. “I’ve got dozens of others tied back to me with minimal evidence. My deal is some under-paid defense lawyer’s wet dream, sir.”

Funny. That piece of info doesn’t see to unruffle Amari’s feathers. Her jaw tightens, her lips purse, and Jesse recons he can taste ozone brewing in the air around them. “You were in Deadlock,” She says after a moment, “for how long?”

At least Jesse has a reply for this one, practiced and automatic. “I got tatted up when I was pushing fifteen.”

Amari stares him down. “I asked how long.”

He doesn’t quite flinch, but it’s a close thing. Looks like she paying a bit more attention than the last guy. “And I told you,” Jesse snaps, holding his ground.

“And your family?” Amari rushes out, abandoning that line of discussion. She’s not letting up, just pushing harder from a different angle. “Your next of kin?”

_We’re all family here—_

“All dead.” Jesse says evenly, shrugging with an ‘eh, what can you do’ air. “Ain’t got anyone waiting up for me at home if that’s your concern.”

“Did you join because your caretakers died?”

Now, Jesse might have had to deal with his fair share of invasive questions over the course of the last week, but he can’t see how Amari has _any_ right to that. He leans back in his chair to force the tension out of his shoulders, to melt the steel that his spine has become. It doesn’t work, and his hands wrap themselves into white-knuckled fists. “Does it make a difference?” He bites out.

He can’t keep the acid out his voice, and Amari’s glare heats up a notch, but her words are still as cold as ice. “Yes. So answer the question.”

Jesse bares his teeth, and it’s a warning, a threat, and he hates how it slides right into place on his face. “Even if it does matter, I can’t see how in the _hell_ it would be your business.”

 _None of this_ is Amari’s business—It ain’t _anyone’s_ fucking business, but especially not _hers_ —and he ain’t saying anything else to her. She wants to play the interrogator? Well, he can sit still all damn day. He’s a goddamn pro at this point. He’s sat through this too many times, and Jesse knows every single word he’s spoken is written down somewhere, so Captain Amari can go use her high-clearance security and waste her time without him.

She barks out questions, and he looks her dead in the eye just so he can yawn. That’s the only reason he opens his mouth again—to let her know exactly what he thinks in a manner that can’t acquire a paper trail. Jesse tunes out Amari’s words, tracing that sharp tattoo below her eye or meditating on how much he hates overhead lights or other important matters, because—and this is the kicker—Amari can’t do _shit_ to him.

She tried and failed, and the only reason she’s trying again is because Reyes is out doing whatever he does instead of sleeping. And it turns out very quickly that thing he does can be easily described as: “Look incredibly bored with this turn of events.”

 “Huh,” Reyes says from the stairwell, his arms crossed over his chest. “Am I missing out on a heart to heart?”

Amari rises to her feet, her fists sharp and clenched. “That’s what happens when you run off without telling anyone where you’re going: You miss things.”

Like everything else that seemed to happen around him, Jesse got the feeling there was something deeper than he cared to understand lingering in that sentence. Still waters run deep, but the viciousness in the air is more like the ocean; much deeper, and much meaner to those who dared to cross it.

He hates getting dropped into old histories.

“A Canadian extremist group was one hour away from buying five kilos of enriched Uranium.” Reyes raises an eyebrow, meeting Amari’s raw anger with carefully fronted disdain. “Sorry for silencing my cell phone.”

 _Is this a normal day for them?_ Jesse wonders.

“I had to promise that the Antarctic Ecopoint would be led by an American scientist to keep the Secretary of State happy” Amari snaps, “Which means the Chinese Minister of Foreign Affairs is breathing down my neck.”

“Zheng?” At Amari’s clipped affirmative, Reyes nods and raises his hands placatingly. “I’ll give him a call and tell him to die mad about it.”

 _Okay,_ Jesse reasons, slightly impressed, _so they’re always like this._

He’s seen his fair share of petty squabbles and he’s fronted his way through a decent number of shouting matches, but the building tension in front of him puts a weight in his stomach. Amari really isn’t letting this go for some reason. It could be all the shit she apparently had to do because Reyes somehow screwed up—

“A week early—”

“The timetable shifted—”

“And now we have no clue—”

“Everything was wired to self-destruct—”

“And if it _didn’t_?”

—which sounds like it was a giant pain in the ass, but it’s bullshit that Amari is targeting him because of it.

They appear to be talking about politics—global politics, in fact—which isn’t something Jesse is too well-versed in. The names and occupations and situations fly over his head, so he studies Reyes’ face instead. The stitches across his cheek need to come out. Right now, all they’re doing is adding decoration to a fissure of scar tissue, like bridges spanning a river.

Reyes drones out, “He asked for this personally. He can’t get his feelings hurt if I have to—"

“Yes, actually, he can,” Amari corrects. “And since it ended so disastrously, he can bring his concerns to UN.”

Jesse pays attention to tone and keeps track of who is more pissed off (Amari, by a long run), but he’s seen a lotta these domestic-type disputes. A little nerve-warcking, but not especially dangerous. Of course, the last argument he had to bear witness to ended with Jesse unloading lead into the losing party of said domestic-dispute, but Reyes hadn’t given him a gun, so he wasn’t anticipating that coming up. Kneecap’s ugly demise notwithstanding, Jesse’s sat in on his fair share of mean business deals without actually paying attention to what was being said, just so much as _how they said it_. That was a much more precise indicator of how close he needed to have his hand on his gun. Reyes isn’t allowing it to get nearly as heated as some of those puppies.

In fact, he brings in something that Jesse isn’t too familiar with at all; a note of—of softness? That’s not the right word, because Reyes ain’t soft, whatever he is, but it drags Jesse to attention all the same, unexpected as it is.

Reyes pulls a dented tin box from his hoodie. It has a looping, unfamiliar script and narrow flowers painted across the front in a dusted shade of pink. Like someone managed to capture sunlight and pink lemonade and then stamped it onto the tin without looking back to check for flaws. “I would have been back sooner, but hibiscus tea is a bitch to find outside of Cairo.”

Jesse raises his eyebrows. Looks like someone isn’t burning their bridges after all.

Amari sighs long and hard, and her hands go slack at her sides. She reaches out for the tea, and Reyes sets it into her hand. “I would have had your back,” she says finally, turning the box of tea over in her palms, “had you only asked.”

“You might have also had my head,” Reyes replies sardonically. However, then he looks away and says, “And I figured I needed you to save my ass from whatever bureaucratic nightmare I stirred up. Boy-scout can only handle so many disasters.”

Amari snorts, soft but humorless. Then she says, with no small amount of bitterness. “You’re not off the hook.”

“I figured I wasn’t.” Reyes reaches into his pocket and holds up a file drive. “Here’s the mission report. Read it before we get into another argument.”

Amari accepts it quicker than the tea. “There had better be a good reason for this, Gabriel.”

Reyes glances over to Jesse—a quick, impersonal assessment. “Stay here.” He waves for Amari to exit the room, and she does so without a backwards glance.

The door slides shut with a hiss and a click, and Jesse is left alone. It’s enough to raise his blood pressure.

Reyes could have left at any time. He didn’t care if Jesse heard any of what just occurred. He _wanted_ Jesse to hear it (maybe), even though it wasn’t flattering. That alone makes the sudden secrecy itch at the back of his neck.

Jesse stands. The exit looms, the twisted stairwell removing any hopes of hearing anything. Not without getting closer. He steps towards the door, and then spins around and marches the other way. And he can’t hope to get close enough without taking the definite risk of being caught—and ease dropping ain’t about to get him brownie points.

But still. What the hell did they not want him to hear?

He only gets to think about it for less than a minute.

Reyes stands in the stairwell, silent and unreadable. Finally, he sighs and runs a hand over his face. “What did I say about Amari?”

Jesse shrugs and looks away. “She cornered me. I dunno why you left me alone with her.”

“Because I know how good you are at managing to speak and say absolutely nothing,” Reyes counters shortly. He waves Jesse up. “But you must have figured out how to have a conversation while I was gone.”

Jesse’s mouth twists. “I figured if I gave her something, she’d leave quicker.” Which obviously hadn’t worked out. Still, he hadn’t told her anything he hadn’t already said before. She could find out the same info by looking through those old-fashioned audio recordings of all his questioning sessions.

“I’m not mad,” Reyes says suddenly.

Jesse looks to him in surprise. But upon closer examination, it’s true. He just looks tired, and his voice ain’t the growl that Jesse has grown accustomed to. Which is both unusual and a relief. “I, uh. . . yeah. I thought she was just pissed about me talkin’ to Fareeha. Stupid assumption in hindsight, I guess,” he says, scratching the back of his neck so he has an excuse to look away.

“Assumptions are rarely smart, but they are incredibly useful.”

Jesse narrows his eyes and tries to puzzle through that. Reyes gives him plenty of time; he just motions for Jesse to follow and walks out of the god-forsaken meeting room that Jesse has been trapped in for the past hour. Outside, he casts a wary look around to see if Amari might swoop in like a vulture again, but she’s nowhere to be seen. The only thing swooping is seagulls, their cries almost drowned out against the rush of sea breeze.

There are a few technicians working at the base of a sparking floodlight, but everyone else is dodging the high sun. As soon as Jesse and Reyes pass the workers and enter a hanger overflowing with aircrafts, Reyes says, “Nicholson gave you a glowing recommendation.”

Jesse jerks his head around. “What?”

“She said that she’d never seen someone run so fast.” He claps his hands sharply. “Like a deer, she said. Headlights and all.”

Jesse blanches, his face heating up. He was surprised. Sue him.

“I mean,” Reyes continues, shrugging his broad shoulders, “She said a few other things, but that was the gist.”

It takes a lot out of Jesse to simply nod his head. This is his life now, and he needs to get with the picture.

“You shot her,” Reyes informs him. Jesse doesn’t have it in him to pretend surprise. “She sent a few million volts of electricity through your head in the process, which most likely disrupted your ability to recall the event.”

“Yeah,” Jesse says. Memory is a slippery thing. Head injuries and alcohol never made it easier to grasp. “I could see that happening.”

Reyes nods, surprisingly enough. “Well, you forgot the most ‘statistically improbable’ shot our med-team ever saw. Somehow managed to shatter both the L1 and T12 vertebrae and hit about every major organ possible on the way up.”

That was the neat thing about deadeye. It took the path of least resistance every time. Usually that meant the chest. If they had body armor, it went for the head. If your hand was down by your side? That meant a little extra creativity.

“She pulled through by the skin of her teeth.”

Too bad creativity rarely translated into _effective_ when it came to bullets.

Reyes shrugs, and although Jesse is listening for an accusation, he can’t hear one. Instead, he sounds like he’s breaking the news. Like Jesse is a friend instead of the reason for this whole mess.

_“Listen, kid, I know you don’t want to hear this—"_

“The medi-gel we used interferes with all current neurogenesis technology.” Reyes sighs and then reaches up to adjust his beanie. “Hell, even if it didn’t, nothing we have is advanced enough to properly bridge that kind of gap. So, as it currently looks, she’ll never walk again.”

Jesse chews on his words for a moment. What was there to say? Apologies don’t mean shit, especially if you aren’t sorry. And Jesse isn’t sorry for trying to fight his way out of a corner.

He’s sorry he failed, if anything.

But Reyes is looking to have a sentimental streak—some people like apologies, Jesse reminds himself. He hadn’t really pegged Reyes as one of them, but his little present to Amari definitely counted as an apology, and a sappy one at that. So. When in Rome and all that. Jesse swallows his pride and his better sense and says, “I’m sorry about that.”

It becomes immediately apparent that was the wrong thing to say. Reyes narrows his eyes, his previous mildness evaporating in an instant. “No. You aren’t,” He says bluntly, “So don’t lie about it.”

And the force of it makes Jesse stop walking for half a second before he jerks to catch up. He tries to say something, anything, but his jaw is practically welded shut. Which is probably the smartest thing he’s done. Keeping his mouth shut would really just save him a lot of trouble.

Learning to fucking keep his mouth shut and his hands still would really save everyone a lot of trouble.

Reyes doesn’t say anything until they make it back to that office from earlier. Jesse follows suit. Reyes gestures for Jesse to sit. Jesse sits. Reyes does not. Reyes picks up a folder from his desk and glances over the contents for a few seconds. He appears to find everything satisfactory in his judgement.

"I had the intel division take the liberty of making you an alias, ‘Mr. Joel Marricone.’” Reyes drops the plain folder into his lap. He gives Jesse an even look that’s out of place on his scratched and scabbed face. “It'd be best if you start living it immediately."

Jesse's eyes widen as he takes in the contents of the folder. A Texas Birth certificate. School records—quite a few. Joel moved around a lot, it appeared. He also worked quite a few jobs—hired often but not for long: The type of person no one would remember. He’s got dozens of pictures from kindergarten to high school, though, so he _must_ have existed, and they look so wildly similar that Jesse whispers, "How did you—?"

"Facial recognition software,” Reyes says, a note of self-satisfaction lifting his voice out of exhaustion. “Found a decent match, mixed and stitched a few features via photoshop. We have some very talented artists who enjoy the challenge." He keeps talking, getting the closest to conversational that Jesse has ever seen; mentioning this and that, and how simple it is to just insert a person into the system if you have just the right _tech_ , the right _access—_

And Jesse is left staring at pictures of kids grinning ear to ear, dressed in navy and kahki, all of them wearing something so much like his face that he feels _sick_. He's happy in all these photos. No bruises or bags under his eyes. No hat perched on his crown. No tattoo inked on his forearm. Just missing front teeth, shitty haircuts, a few pimples as he gets older. Maybe he had those things as a kid too. He’s got no way to tell. He’s got no way to remember.

Joel Marricone. Born eighteen years and six days ago.

It’s like putting whitewash over the walls of a slaughterhouse.

"And this will make things a lot simpler to deal with at Swiss, especially since you need to undergo basic training with other Overwatch recruits—"

Like anyone could look at Jesse and buy this bullshit. The paper crumples under his hands, and Jesse drops the file into his lap before he rips it apart. 

And Jesse's says something he hasn't had the courage or stupidity to say in quite some time.

"No."

Reyes stops mid-sentence, the viciousness in that word throwing him for a loop. It doesn't throw him for long: He looks at Jesse with slow sort of recognition. Like Amari’s earlier look of revelation, though Reyes appears to be a lot more secular in nature. "You want to keep your name." Not a question. It still warrants an answer.

"It's my name."

Reyes tilts his head in consideration. "You're getting the chance at a clean slate. Do you really want to lug around a ledger that's dripping red ink for the rest of your life?"

He says it like it's some grand fucking present and Jesse is stupid for turning his nose up at it. As if a new name is all it takes—new shoes, a clean resume, and _tada!_ A brand-new person!

"Deadlock didn't give me my name," Jesse snaps. "My mama did, and I ain't about to disrespect her by changing it just cause y'all are uncomfortable with hiring a criminal."

"I didn't take you for a sentimentalist," Reyes drawls, his words light but his gaze anything but. His black-hole eyes demand an answer, a placation. A reason for this.

Jesse is glad to give it. "My name," he spells out, "is Jesse McCree. And that name holds everything I've ever done. I'm not letting go of it."

Reyes stares him down with that same foreboding blankness, but for once Jesse doesn't feel like curling up and ducking his head against the current. He tucks his chin in to brace for a wave, that's for sure, but his eyes are burning with nothing but challenge. His name is pretty much all he has left to him. A name, a history, and a hat to tie it together. If Reyes wants any of those things, then he's not getting them without a fight.

"If your name is recognized—"

"No one in _Switzerland_ is going to know who the hell I am," Jesse says impatiently. He’s not a household name and he sure as hell ain’t a household face. A bounty-hunter might have glanced at his mug before reading his affiliations and deciding it wasn’t worth it. Some bastard at whatever branch of law enforcement is raising their glass to the fact that he isn’t their problem anymore. That was it. Nobody in the world gave a shit about Jesse McCree, and least of all anyone who could make it into an Overwatch base in Europe.

"You may not be on the most wanted list, vaquero, but it was a close thing."

Jesse narrows his eyes at the nickname, but he’s not getting distracted. "What's going to happen if anyone knows?"

Reyes shuts his eyes and sighs. "Nothing, to me."

Jesse is thrilled to bear any trouble thrown his way. "Then I'll keep it. I'll deal with it.”

Reyes wavers. Indecision is written across his face. It’s a strange look for him. Reyes has never looked less than completely sure of what he’s saying, and now he can’t seem to even find words to speak. But then he nods. "I'm holding you to your word, then." That previous self-satisfaction has vanished, leaving behind the Reyes Jesse is familiar with. Tired and weary and blank as a wall.

He mentions their flight for Swiss HQ is ready, and that they need to move. They’re running late, actually, and Reyes hates running late. He leaves without checking to see if Jesse will follow, because he’s gotta follow. He’s got nowhere else to go and nowhere else to be.

And just like that, Jesse is left with a file full of useless lies. He takes one last look at himself, at not-himself, at all the what-ifs and ugly possibilities, before he hurls it into the trash where it belongs. None of the pages manages to escape the tiny bin, but Jesse crushes it down with the heel of his boot. Just in case. Then he stalks out and trails after Reyes.

He’s got a plane to catch, and he’ll be damned if he touches that bullshit a second longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chrIST this chapter yall. it was a labor of love, heavy emphasis on the labor.
> 
> also! what was your favorite line/part??


	9. Sangria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another doctor visit bc i am a monster with no self control, but hey i managed to introduce someone too so i am improving in some way

Swiss base is nice in the sense that it makes Jesse feel the need to take a shower and get a haircut. It’s all lofty ceilings and polished granite, open floor-plans and tall windows. Lots of natural light and soothing colors. He hasn’t seen the whole base, mostly because the whole base is huge, but every public reception area is built for photo ops. Jesse ain’t exactly what anyone would call picture perfect.

The rest of the funeral brigade splits once the plane touches down, leaving Jesse with Commander Sunshine himself. Reyes gives him the usual verbose commentary; which is to say that he shows Jesse where he’ll be sleeping and orders him to not insult anyone wearing a suit.

 “Don’t go redecorating quite yet,” Reyes says as he swipes a keycard over an electric lock. “There’s a chance you might move to a different room.”

“I hear ya’,” Jesse says, eyeing his bunk. The room is smaller than his last one, but the lofted bed makes up for the lack of space. He spies a set of clothes neatly stacked on his desk. All regulation wear and completely alien.

“Minerva will answer any questions you have.” Reyes offers Jesse the keycard. “Don’t tamper with the smoke detector. You will get slapped with a fine.”

Jesse keeps himself from snorting, but his mouth quirks up at the corner. It’s more on the wry side of a grimace than anything genuinely gleeful. It isn’t like he has any reason to mess with a smoke detector now. Reyes may have forgotten to ask for his lighter, but there’s no point in using it if he doesn’t have any cigs. Which he doesn’t. And he doubts that something nominally illegal in most of Europe will be available in any ol’ sucker’s back pocket.

After a moment, Reyes says, “And that card has a small allowance for amenities. There’s a store for snack foods and toiletries, but you should already have most of the basics. The medical center is always open and able to fulfill prescriptions. In fact, Dr. Romanes recommended that you follow up on the inflammation in your eyes.”

Is Reyes. . . hovering? Because, despite all his comments about being a very busy person, he’s taking forever to get a move on. Jesse tilts his head before he finds a more well-suited phrase. Because Reyes doesn’t hover. Reyes breathes down your neck.

“And there should be—"

“Sounds good,” Jesse says, interrupting Reyes’ infodump. He’s sure he’ll get to all that eventually, but none of it is a chore he needs to handle immediately.

Reyes isn’t thrilled at the interruption, but his expression doesn’t make Jesse immediately regret his entire life, so it’s worth it. He frowns. “Stay out of trouble.”

Jesse nods. Then he steps into the room and shuts the door behind him without looking back.

Stay out of trouble, huh?

Jesse’s fine with that. He’s downright thrilled about it. That right there is permission to avoid people indefinitely. Sleeping ain’t exactly at the top of his list, but not talking to another human being for a few days sounds like a goddamn blessing. He spends his first night at Swiss base skipping dinner and staring at a wall, his thoughts jumping between cigarettes and bones, tattoos and contracts. It’s still better than actually dealing with anyone.

He's too sober for this. Jesse is nearly three weeks clean and he’s hating every second of it. He doesn’t even get a shitty token. All he gets is insomnia.

That’s another system Reyes has interrupted. It used to be that Jesse could have a beer or two on his easy going nights and that would be enough to halt the static in his ears. He’d fall asleep like a baby and wake up without remembering his dreams. Now, sometimes he went for the heavier, harder stuff and he’d wake up tired, but even that was better than tossing and turning and getting paranoid about every creak and whisper of conversation.

In his bunk, there isn’t even a smidge of conversation to overhear, so his shitty brain makes due by going in unproductive circles.

Jesse’s deliverance comes at 5:45 sharp.

“Excuse me, Mr. McCree,” Minerva says, slowly increasing the brightness of the lights. “Commander Reyes has requested your presence at his office in fifteen minutes.”

Jesse rolls out of bed and shoves his feet into his boots. “Where?”

Minerva rattles off directions and Jesse is out the door. There aren’t many people wandering the halls this early in the morning, and that suits Jesse just fine. It gives him time to wonder what Reyes wants. It gives him time to figure out how to make sure Reyes gets it.

Jesse knocks, and the door slides right on open. It’s an office, alright. Bigger than the last one at Gibraltar, with a few pictures and certificates hung up on the walls. There’s a flowering plant in the corner, all dark red blossoms and glossy jade leaves. The warm and bitter scent of coffee hangs in the air, probably due to the old-style coffee pot resting on top of a filing cabinet. Reyes isn’t visible.

There’s a door to his right and some movement behind it. It slides open, and out walks Reyes. Except he’s walking backwards, dragging a rolling board of some sort. “Did I interrupt your beauty sleep?” Reyes asks.

Jesse clucks his tongue. “Nope.”

That catches Reyes’ attention. He glances over, giving his usual businesslike examination. Then annoyance flashes over his face, followed closely by an expression that could only indicate a building migraine. “For the love of God, cowboy,” He mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose, “shower and change your clothes. You can’t just go around like that.”

Jesse bristles, but he tries to file down the edge in his voice. “Like _what_?”

“There’s a uniform. McCree. You can’t wear casual clothes on duty.”

“You’re wearing a hoodie and a beanie,” Jesse mentions, as if Reyes somehow missed the hypocrisy. “I’ve never seen you without them.”

“I also happen to have executive power,” Reyes says right back. “This is my uniform.”

Jesse hides his truly unsubtle eyeroll by adjusting the brim of his hat. “Is everything blue? ’cause blue ain’t exactly my color.”

“I somehow think you would look worse in orange,” Reyes says, the snark in his voice dryer than the desert.

Jesse concedes the point with a blanched expression. “Denim is part of the protocol,” He says, shrugging into this awful reality like an ill-fitting shirt. “Got it. Anything else?”

“Yes.”

Well, Jesse could’ve seen that one coming.

Reyes abandons his rolling whiteboard on the far side of the room. He takes a seat behind his desk and gestures for Jesse to pull up a chair. “Next rotation of basic training starts in a few days,” Reyes says.

Jesse rolls his eyes. “I told you—”

“I know what you think, cowboy, and I really don’t care. If you want a job, this is nonnegotiable.” Reyes raises an eyebrow. “ _Comprende?_ ”

Jesse sighs. “Sure.”

Reyes nods, satisfied. The coffee pot beeps, and Reyes pours a mug. It reads, ‘don’t talk to me, I’m not human this early.’ “Coffee?”

Jesse has had coffee and he isn’t nearly tired enough to swallow something that bitter so early in the morning. Even if he’s feeling slightly less than human. “No thanks,” he says dully.

“Hmm,” Reyes pours another mug anyway, seemingly for himself. The second mug says something like “World’s Worst. . .” but the punchline isn’t visible. “More for me, then.”

Jess has time for one humorless laugh, and then there’s a knock at the door. Reyes looks up, his brows furrowed, and then the door slides open without waiting for permission. Jesse’s eyes widen in surprise, and he twists in his seat to see who had the balls to barge into Reyes’ office at six in the morning.

And it turns out to be Jack Morrison. Because of course it is.

He’s the same size as Reyes, which is a feat in and of itself. He never looked quite that imposing on all the holos. Of course, holos don’t ever really do people justice. His nose is more crooked, his mouth wedged into a sour line. His gaze sweeps over Jesse, entirely dismissive, and falls on Reyes. “Did I interrupt something?”

Reyes tilts his head in consideration. “McCree.”

Jesse keeps his expression guarded. “Yeah?”

His poker face is wasted because Reyes only has eyes for Morrison. “Go wait outside.”

Jesse goes, and he waits outside. He waits outside patiently and quietly, with his ear pressed firmly against the door. It’s early and isolated enough that no one is able to judge him for his blatant eavesdropping. That’s at least one reason to appreciate Reyes’ shitty sleep schedule.

There’s a moment of what Jesse can only assume is some big staring contest, but Morrison breaks it to say, “So. How’s your week been?”

Reyes snorts. “A fucking nightmare. Yours?”

“About the same.”

“Hah.” Reyes pauses and then says, “You’ve talked to Ana.”

“Here and there,” Morrison drawls. “Mostly about our budget.”

“Fun stuff.”

“It sure is,” Morrison says blandly. “How’s Nicholson?”

“In a wheelchair. Pissed.”

“At you?” Morrison asks.

“At life.”

Jesse can relate. Probably for different reasons. But that’s understandable. He’s still walking and she’s sans a vertebrae or two.

“That’s tough shit. Well, since you’re so curious, I got called into some big meeting with everyone’s favorite security council.”

Jesse has heard people talk about root canals with more glee. 

Reyes hums. “You know, I think they’re all bad influences. Because you’ve never been about this kind of chicken-shi—"

“And there was much rejoicing,” Morrison drones on, like the worlds least religious preacher, “For the piranhas did not fight too hard when I told them to shove their proposed funding up their ass, so long as I said it very nicely.”

“Is there a point here?” Reyes drawls. “Any day now. You’re not getting any younger.”

Morrison doesn’t appear to hear him, “It’s amazing. All of that honest and good politicking and Ana’s various updates made me realize that—” and here Morrison pitches his voice into something senatorial and showy—”our current medical research team needs to be allocated greater funding so as to blah blah blah. . .”

“Morrison,” Reyes groans, “what the fuck are you—"

“We’re bringing in new researchers. The neuro-prosthetic tech is going full steam ahead.”

Jesse could hear a pin drop.

“You’re welcome, asshole,” Morrison adds, warmer than sunlight, warmer than hot concrete on a cold night.

“You absolute _prick_ ,” Reyes manages before dissolving into laughter. Morrison joins in, and their unrestrained glee snaps the tension in Jesse’s spine like a dry twig. “Jesus. You’ve been working on your poker face.”

“I had to let you sweat,” Morrison says, matter of fact. The chair Jesse occupied earlier scrapes on the ground. “I had to talk to people. Me. Being reassuring.”

“Goes against your nature,” Reyes wheezes, his voice all choked up.

“It’s like pissing on an electric fence,” Morrison states. “Fucking awful. Ana shouldered the worst of it. You need to get her a thank-you gift.”

“Already did.”

“Get another. She canceled her weekend trip with Fareeha.”

“Shit,” Reyes mutters. “I didn’t realize.”

“Yeah, me either. I know she’s already yelled at you, so I won’t beat a dead horse, but give her a little warning next time.”

Jesse has to grind his face into the door to hear the reply.

“It just wasn’t on my mind. I had a—”

“Hey, I get it,” Morrison says. “Shit happens. I didn’t have time to read your report, but you aren’t me. You don’t do stupid shit on a whim. If you had to move, you had to move.”

“That doesn’t make it less of a headache.”

“Speaking of headaches,” Morrison muses. “Really?”

“What?”

“That’s the criminal that’s been turning Ana’s hair gray?”

Reyes scoffs loudly enough to pierce the metal of the door. “He’s sucking my youth too. You just can’t see it because of the hat.”

Morrison has a big laugh at both of their expenses. The friendly patronization seeps from under the crack. “I’m just surprised. _That’s_ your charity case?”

Jesse rolls his eyes in contempt.

“Not a charity case.”

“Oh, come one,” Morrison goads, his grin audible as he pokes fun, “you’re being down right charitable.”

Jesse presses harder against the door, straining to catch Reyes’ reply. Jesse had already figured his situation unusual; Amari had told him the same. Morrison is a three for three streak. Jesse is just as curious to know what’s so fucking special about this case, about _him—_

“Fuck off,” Reyes says over a laugh.

Jesse slumps against the door, a grimace tugging at his face. Then he rolls his eyes at his own desperation. Since when has he ever gotten an easy answer?

“Ha! Fine, fine, I’ve got shit that needs attending anyway.” Morrison’s chair scrapes along the ground a little, but Jesse remains still, his ear glued to the cold metal. “Just don’t leave me hanging forever. I want to hear all about the disaster in person.”

Disaster? Is that a new nickname? Jesse doesn’t have time to linger on it. Steel toed boots meet concrete and the lightest steps in the world couldn’t disguise that kind of vibration. Jesse grinds his jaw, but he stays where he is, just for a few more _seconds_ —

“And be subtle with whatever you’ve got planned for Eastwood,” Morrison adds.

“I’m all about subtleties,” Reyes says, some wryness leaking into his usual deadpan.

Morrison huffs sharply. “Sure you are. Me too.”

Jesse spins away from the door, not daring to even breathe. He sets himself a respectful three paces away. It’s mostly out of necessity. Before he can move further, Morrison opens the door and steps out. His face is a bit less haggard now that he doesn’t look like his most recent meal was a straight lemon. Still, his mouth is just a shade too smug for Jesse to enjoy. When he looks at Jesse, it only gets worse—like there’s some joke that Jesse ain’t privy to.

Which might not be to far off the mark.

And Jesse’s staring. Jesse is actually in the process of being caught staring, which is slightly more unusual. That would normally be a violation of manners, but Morrison seems fine with staring right back. Discomfort settles in his stomach. Not fear so much as wariness. Morrison is just _thrilled_ about something. It might not be ill-meaning: Jesse certainly doesn’t mean ill when he cleans out some poor sucker in a poker game. That doesn’t mean someone ain’t going to lose by the end of the night.

Morrison’s got the same look in his eye as men with a winning hand. Jesse doesn’t even know what cards he’s been dealt.

Jesse reaches up and breaks eye-contact with a tilt of his hat. Morrison snorts slightly, but Jesse spins on his heel and marches back into the recently vacated room without a backwards glance. It’s almost a perfect disengagement in his books, except for the part where he accidentally slams the door.

Reyes raises an eyebrow, and Jesse pointedly looks away.

“How much of that did you overhear?” Asks Reyes, all dry curiosity.

Jesse’s heart might skip a beat, but all he does is paste on a disdainful expression. “I ain’t nosy. Happen t’like my nose too much.”

“Sure you are,” Reyes says, sounding unconvinced.

* * *

 

Turns out that basic training involves waking up early. That part doesn’t really bother him the first day. His sleep schedule is shot to hell, still jet lagged a few hours behind what it should be. He’s wide awake for his six am roll call. He’s actually eager for it. The idleness of his week—three weeks nearly—has been enough to drive him up the wall. Any change of pace is welcome.

Of course, that eagerness doesn’t last. He’s so exhausted after the first day that he passes out the moment his head hits pillow. That resets his sleeping habits pretty fast. He sleeps all the way through the night, no memorable dreams or awakenings to be found. He sleeps all the way to his alarm, and he would’ve slept past it if his alarm weren’t an AI that controls both the lights and stereo in his room.

Day two is not nearly as welcome as day one. That is the day that Jesse realizes most of his skills are useless here. It doesn’t matter that he can disassemble and reassemble a gun blindfolded in nearly half the time that it takes anyone else. Or that he could tell them the selling price for any make or model on the black market. Or that he can usually get double that price and have a buyer be thanking him for the pleasure.

Nobody cares about that here. It might be useful in the future, but that future isn’t going to happen unless he can make it through the present. Basic training is all about running and hitting, and while Jesse ain’t too shitty at the latter, he’s miles behind virtually everyone in the former.

Some of that Jesse chalks up to previous experience. He isn’t exactly a stranger to exertion. He’s out-sprinted plenty of angry people in his life time, but everyone here keeps cooing about ‘endurance’ and ‘general fitness’ and ‘wholistic health.’ Which is just a hateful way of saying that they want him to run for miles.

That’s where he starts having issues.

Which means that day one is where he begins to have a problem and day three is when that problem begins to suffocate him.

Day four is when he gets a biology lesson. He’s never had one of those before. He slugged his way through a few years of math as a kid, and his mom taught him plenty of more practical lessons, but day four teaches him all sorts of cool shit about the respiratory system.

Did you know that even occasional second-hand smoke inhalation can reduce lung capacity? That habitual cigarette use can lead to all sorts of nasty diseases; especially in the case of those who start before they turn twenty-one? That it makes aerobic activity the worst fucking thing on the planet?

Yeah, well, Jesse didn’t either, but some young student doctor is very quick to inform him of this fact after he passes out during PT. He’d like to mention that he was only unconscious for a minute and that he only smoked twice a day, but that would require doing something other than breathing, which is currently taking most of his energy.

“You appear to have Emphysema,” The doctor says, unhooking her stethoscope and reaching for a holopad. “It’s a lung condition that affects the aveoli, which is where gas exchange occurs. You’re going to need a few weeks of treatment to heal the damage to your respiratory system.”

“That ain’t possible,” Jesse wheezes. He isn’t aiming to be difficult. Lord knows he’d like to take a vacation from his entire existence, but Reyes said that this shit is a requirement, and that means Jesse will just have to suck it up.

She raises an eyebrow. Her tone is still even, but her accent thickens in annoyance. “I believe you will find it quite easy. You simply need to stay still.”

“I don’t have time for that,” Jesse says. “I’ve gotta—”

“Mr. McCree,” The doctor interrupts, “You are not able to breathe. The cavities that facilitate oxygen transfer are torn and degraded. You do not have the lung capacity to complete basic training.” She flicks her wrist, and the holopad blooms up, displaying a pair of lungs. “These dark areas signify damage.”

She zooms in until the screen shows what looks like a bunch of rotting grapes and punctured balloons. “And these structures are what you need to fix.”

Jesse purses his lips and then looks away. “I guess that don’t look too pretty,” he concedes.

“No,” She agrees. “They do not. We do not have the means to reconstruct lung tissue non-invasively, so it will take _time._ I know you are eager to be assigned agent status, but your health must come first.”

Jesse stares at the hologram. Reyes might not like that. And Jesse really hated pissing off Reyes. Well, he hated the potential consequences, at the very least. “I’ll have to ask my—uh, CO.”

He does ask Minerva, who happens to be a little bit smarter than he gave credit, to mention that Jesse might, maybe, possibly need to talk to Reyes. And Minerva takes that as permission to hijack a holoscreen and open a conference call while Jesse is hooked up to an oxygenated biotic tank.

Reyes takes one look at him and shuts his eyes. “What did you _do?_ ” Which sounds really close to _“How did you screw up this early?”_

Jesse takes a deep breath of the heavy air and draws the mask away from his face. “So, I, uh. The doctor said that I, uh—”

Said doctor takes pity on him and guides the mask back up to his face. “Please keep it on until we’re finished,” She murmurs quietly. Then she turns to the screen. “Good morning, sir. I’m afraid I will have to keep trainee McCree on medical leave for a few weeks.”

Reyes looks slightly confused, but not angry. “What for?” He’s got this strange note of edged curiosity in his voice.

His doctor gives a bland smile, all closed eyes and perfect beside manner. “I understand your concern, I’m afraid that is confidential.”

Jesse stiffens, and then he jerks the mask away to say, “No, it’s fine, he can—”

The doctor places a cold hand over his and guides the mask back into place. “Please keep the mask on until the treatment is finished. The program requires a constant stream to be effective.” She turns her back to the holo and lowers her voice. “Would you like me to discuss your treatment with your CO?”

Jesse nods. If Reyes wants to know, Jesse isn’t about to stop him.

The doctor’s mouth purses, just slightly. “Including your smoking? I do not have to, and I want to maintain your privacy.”

Jesse furrows his eyebrows, but then it hits him. You can’t just buy menthols most places. You had to be twenty-five to buy them in the US. So, yeah, technically that’s something illegal. Jesse snorts, keeping himself from laughing. The biotics tingle in his nose. He nods again, waving away her concern about revealing his potentially illegal activities.

She doesn’t know the half of it.

With his permission now freely given, the doctor turns back to address Reyes. They chat about what Jesse can and can’t do (which is quite a lot). The doctor doesn’t mention why he needs treatment and Reyes doesn’t ask. Reyes ends the call with a simple sentence that leaves Jesse confused: “Sounds good.”

The holoscreen returns to a display for Jesse’s fucked up lungs. The doctor’s spine relaxes slightly. “I didn’t realize your CO was commander Reyes,” she says over a small laugh. Then she turns to the screen and enlarges a few charts, following the spikes and swoops that mean virtually nothing to Jesse. “Biotic technology isn’t especially suited to lung recellularization,” She explains as she manipulates the graphs in various ways, “but it has been leagues more effective than past non-invasive cures. A few weeks is practically a miracle.”

As far as Jesse is concerned, the biggest miracle here is that Reyes didn’t cut his losses.

 

* * *

 

His doctor’s name is Zeigler. She’s from Swizterland and she’s the same age as him. He visits her office twice a day, every day. She’s not awful. She’s a bit nosy and a bit pushy, and her office conveniently updates it’s addiction self-help literature section after his first appointment. She has the discretion to avoid pushing the topic further for the first week.

She also likes to chat. Jesse is usually inhaling oxygenated biotics, so he can’t really respond, but she makes sure he’s never bored in their time together. She’ll discuss his prognosis and explain her treatments. When she runs out of things to say in that matter, she starts talking about her research. A lot of it goes over his head, even if she uses the most basic language she can. She’s assuming he’s got a basic education in biology and that just isn’t the case.

Still, Jesse doesn’t burst her bubble. She’s working on her English and he gets how difficult that can be.

Some of it is cool. She keeps complaining about how biotic treatments need a precise tissue specificity, or how scar tissue resists proper healing, or something else that occasionally makes her lapse into German and mutter a few curses. Jesse takes pride in the fact that it only took him two weeks to realize that her research boils down to assisting senior scientists in their quest to figure out how to fix that spine he broke. That’s how long it took her to start stating her grievances about the very limited applications of directed biotic and the very many complications that come with trying to replicate neural pathways.

After that, he tries to block out what she’s saying. He ends up overthinking it anyway.

“Biotic usage always carries the risk of encouraging the replication of bacteria, of course,” Dr. Zeigler instructs in her silvery voice about three weeks in, “no matter how sterile we try to keep conditions, so be on the look out for any symptoms of an infection.”

The mask over Jesse’s face beeps and the pressurized airflow cuts off. He slides it off and drawls, “I’m feelin’ just fine, but I’ll keep a look out.”

“Your white blood cell count is slightly elevated,” She says, frowning. “It’s still within normal ranges, but. . .” She rests her chin on her hand, squinting at the readings on her desk top. “Your vaccinations might present a complication. I’ll need a blood sample just to make sure that you’re healthy.”

Jesse shrugs. “Go for it.” He’s given blood samples once or twice—something about hematocrit—and it’s just a fingerstick and a bandaid.

But even when all that is said and done, Dr. Zeigler asks for another moment. That’s odd. Once he’s done for the day, Zeigler has plenty to move on to. She’s a certifiable roadrunner; always moving around, always reading, always thinking. Jesse respects that she has better things to do. He makes it a point not to linger past office hours. She heads straight to the lab after her shift ends, and since Jesse was a few minutes late today, she is officially off the clock.

But he’s got manners and he also hasn’t gotten winded from taking the stairs these last few days, so he just says, “Of course, doc,” and sits back down.

Zeigler hesitates for a moment before rolling her own chair over and sitting across from him. “Mr. McCree,” she says, “I value my patients and their privacy. I do not mean to probe, and I certainly do not wish to discuss such matters if you are uncomfortable, but I ask that you hear me out before jumping to any conclusions.”

Jesse is beyond jumping. He’s already sprinted several different directions simultaneously. He leans back in his chair to hide his wariness, mentally preparing his story. “Of course, Dr. Zeigler. What’s up?”

Zeigler gives him a relieved smile and her voice mellows out, once again secure in her realm of medical expertise. “I noticed that your hormone levels had spiked after our last check-up. I thought it might have been in response to your current treatment, so I looked into it further.”

Jesse stiffens, but Dr. Zeigler keeps talking. “And I found a great deal of synthetic androgens. Which I considered odd, because your previous medical file did not mention that you were on HRT.”

Jesse stands up. “Look, I appreciate the concern, Dr. Zeigler, but unless—”

“I would not be talking to you if this did not directly concern your health and medical treatment, Mr. McCree.” She fiddles with her hands before placing them back down on her lap. “I’ve seen subdermal implants before, and I find them to be very safe and effective. However, synthetic androgens are not meant to be given without close, um, overwatch,” She falters, stumbling over her words. “They carry a risk of liver damage.”

Jesse is fairly certain his liver damage doesn’t come from HRT. “I’m not stopping,” he says shortly, pulling his hat down over his forehead and placing his comm in his front pocket.

“I am not suggesting that,” Zeigler rushes, holding up her hands in placation. “I’m simply saying that money is not a concern in this environment. You can update your treatment with legitimate hormones. You can keep the same mechanism, too, if that is what you prefer.”

Money isn’t a concern. His mouth twists wryly. That’s what Jesse said when he signed up for his current ‘mechanism.’ He paid a pretty penny for his set up, and it’s to this day one of the few things he doesn’t regret buying. “I got the synthetic stuff because you only need to update it once a year. You can’t do that with organics.”

“Yearly formulas do not have enough research to confirm their safety,“ Dr. Zeigler argues, her eyes narrowing “You will have consistent access to medical care for the foreseeable future, Mr. McCree. Hormonics has a similar routine available to your current therapy.”

Jesse rolls his eyes and turns away. If he screws up, his access to medical care goes out the window. Bye-bye HRT. And he’s got no clue what Reyes thinks about this, so he’s gonna give it a hard pass. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“I give them my _personal_ recommendation.”

Jesse pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. Dr. Zeigler’s jaw is rigid, her brows drawn together in a sharp line. She hasn’t moved from her seat, but her hands are tensed into fists on her lap.

“They work wonders,” she volunteers again, her gaze piercing. She’s not speaking as a doctor anymore; no more congenial cheer and pleasant politeness. Her eyes are stern, as if annoyed with her own momentary vulnerability. Or with Jesse’s stubbornness.

Either way, it’s enough to make him pause. He chews at the inside of his cheek. “.  . . Really?”

Dr. Zeigler nods. The curve of her mouth flattens into something less severe as she breaks eye contact. “Yes. I’ve been using their products for two years now.”

Jesse drums his fingers against his thigh twice before he makes up his mind. He sits his ass back down, tugging and readjusting the brim of his hat so he doesn’t have to acknowledge Zeigler’s discomfort. “How often?”

“Three times a year,” She reports, quickly regaining her composure. “The first segment requires close monitoring to make sure everything stabilizes. Especially since you are still growing.” She brushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear, mentioning offhand, “The treatment you were receiving wasn’t specialized for trans adolescents. You can expect a growth spurt. If you decide you would like to, that is.”

He’s not exactly short. He’s two inches shy of six feet. Two and a half. But, come to think of it, being six foot even sounds just a little tempting. Still. He can’t get ahead of himself. He crosses his arms and says, “Will this all have to go on record?”

Dr. Zeigler nods sharply. “No matter your choice, I must make a note on your file. You need to avoid certain medications and treatments. However, medical personnel will only have access to it if they absolutely must. I’ll simply note that you are unable to take medications that commonly present issues to those on HRT.”

That’s a pain in the ass. If those issues are common, then it wouldn’t be hard for people to put two and two together. But. . . If she’s gonna fucking do it either way, he might as well get the benefits. He went for the synth stuff because he had no clue if or when he could get more. He isn’t stupid and google exist for a goddamn reason. Zeigler’s got a point. As much as he hates getting clocked, he isn’t looking a gift horse in the mouth. Especially since his other horse just left the stable.

“When can we do it?” Jesse asks, uncrossing his arms.

“I took the liberty of pre-ordering Hormonic’s basic package.” She stands and retrieves a glossy white box from one the cabinets lining the walls. “I can administer it now—” and then, as if catching herself, she raises her hands in surrender— “I mean to say, if that is what you would prefer.”

Jesse stares at her before he shakes his head and laughs. Yeah, Dr. Zeigler is a pushy bastard, but Jesse can’t fault her for her lack of audacity.

At least she stopped giving him addiction self-help pamphlets already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo, so im a pretty nb person, but i myself am not currently on hrt of any sort. if theres any transguys out there who have advice or recommendations on how to better portray ftm hrt, i am all ears. also any and all transphobic nonsense can be directed to the complaint box, which is incidentally a garbage can
> 
> hope everyone enjoyed the chapter, its a bit shorter than normal, but im trying to post once a month and the layout i had (two vs three chapters) was a little cramped anyway. this gives me a bit more room for a few scenes that i really wanted to include before the next big event
> 
> so anyways, like comment and subscribe! i am also doing writing commissions if anyone is interested! my ko-fi is https://ko-fi.com/A6024901 and any tips get you an awesome 300 word fic and my eternal undying gratitude. yall can also just mention it is for red ink, and I can add more stuff/get you your chapters sooner


	10. Do Unto Others

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot progression??? its more likely than you think?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for me nerding out about cell bio and for chronic coffee drinking

When Jesse took Reyes up on his offer, he had expected a bit more obligations and a lot less free time. He’s always had plenty of time to spend. That was one of the perks of being inexpendable. No one’s gonna bother him with tedious shit—especially if it would fuck him up when he actually needed to be there.

If he wasn’t needed, people didn’t really give a shit about what he did or where he did it. Colt let him take sales jobs on the side to make extra cash, but Jesse didn’t exactly have a lot of expenses. No rent and a very lucrative business model meant he had a pretty steep savings account.

Had. Depending on how much of the gorge got blown up, his cash might have gone up in flames, along with pretty much everything else he owned.

But still—he had maybe a week or two of solid downtime at most. The longest was that time when he broke his wrist, but Jesse had broken that streak the second he could aim well enough with his left hand. Sitting still bored him to tears. It left him with the creeping worry that if he didn’t go out and do something, ‘something’ would come to him.

Deadlock doesn’t—didn’t—sit still. Which was good. Sitting still had never sat well with Jesse. He’s moved from place to place all his life. He’s got the interstates from California to Texas branded in his memory and the mile meter on his life is in the six-figure range. That’s the way he likes it.

Overwatch couldn’t be more different. Jesse is swimming in so much time that he has no clue what to do with it. He’d thought things would pick up after all the trouble it took to get here, but they’ve only gotten slower. Reyes has checked in exactly once since Minerva sprung that conference call on him, and it was also via Minerva.

Jesse isn’t inclined to change that. The last thing he needs to do is paint himself as needy or stupid.

Whenever Jesse’s not bothering Zeigler with his shitty health problems, he finds ways to amuse himself. His ID doesn’t give him access to the shooting range. That’s all kinds of disrespectful, but he can’t exactly do shit about it even if it goes against the grain. This is the longest he’s been without a gun since he was old enough to not accidentally shoot himself. He doesn’t even need to fire the damn thing. Just holding it, lining up the sights, making sure he’s not slipping—that would be more than enough.

Instead, he spends hours dodging other people and tentatively getting a feel for the layout of the base. It’s much larger than anything he’s used to. Logically, you’d think that would make it easy to avoid people.  You’d be very wrong. All that space is filled to the brim with people. Overwatch took the popularity it got for saving humanity and ran with it. Now they’ve got enough volunteers and recruits to make a small city.

A fair share of them are research and development types like Dr. Zeigler, but most of them are combat oriented in some way or another. Jesse can tell that much just from looking at the layout of the base. There’s a lot of simulated playgrounds for people to shoot in. Not that he gets to go in them. His ID doesn’t grant him access to that either.

At least he has a com now, not that it’s particularly useful. The only people who message him are Dr. Zeigler when ever she needs to shift appointments and Reyes that one time he sent the full code of conduct with instructions to “read this”.

Jesse read it. The font gave him a headache.

He doesn’t settle into Swiss base so much as he gets used to it. He chats with Zeigler twice a day, eats whenever he feels like it, and then pokes around the edges of construction for the spots outside that have the least foot traffic on any given day. He bitches to himself about how much he misses cigarettes and then he remembers the Zeigler is liable to skin him if he fucks up his lungs, and then that spikes his resentment. Then he starts spiraling back into wondering if he could have done something, anything different—and then he has a laugh at his own dumbass savior fantasies.

If only, if only. Hah.

 Dr. Zeigler clears him for light exercise at some point after he can blow up a balloon without wanting to hang himself. Surprisingly, running is a lot easier when a greater proportion of your lungs aren’t dead or dying. He doesn’t mention this because Zeigler will get a self-satisfied smile, but he does thank her, as he always does. He’s got manners. He’s polite. He’s not gonna get cranky just because he doesn’t have any cigarettes.

Well, he will, but no one is gonna know about it except him.

Zeigler clears him to try basic again, just in time for the start of the next rotation. She sends him off with a weekly follow up appointment and a cheery, “Don’t strain yourself!”

Jesse is awake enough to give her a nod and not much else. He’s back on his shitty sleeping habits, and he’s long overdue for a nap. That’s one thing he appreciated about basic. That’s one thing he _appreciates_ : he never has to grapple with himself to fall asleep. He passes out the second his head hits the pillow and he doesn’t toss or turn the whole night.

Waking up every morning still makes him want to shoot himself, but he’s getting the hang of it.

He makes it to his second Day 4. And then a Day 5. And then there’s Day 6, where he twists his ankle, and Dr. Zeigler greets him with far too much cheer and far too little pain killers. He asks her how her work is going. She ends the visit a bit less cheerful than when he started.

There’s Day 10, and here he breaks someone’s nose by accident on the ugliest sort of obstacle course. Jesse apologizes, the girl accepts. She’s back before the day is over with a wicked bruise. On Day 11, she waves hello in the mess hall. Jesse fumbles for a second before returning the gesture. He hopes it won’t become a thing. It does.

On Day 15 they start basic sparring. It’s a bit unrealistic. He’s always going to bring a gun to a fistfight. If guns are in short supply, nearly anything around you is a viable weapon. Forks. Beer bottles. Keys. Anything is usually better than fighting empty handed. He doesn’t open his mouth. He’ll stick out like a sore thumb. He just learns the way they want him to, with his mind far away and thinking about the times it would have been useful to know where bodies break easiest. He had to learn through experience.

On Day 19, someone breaks his nose because he doesn’t get his guard back fast enough. They apologize. Jesse waves it off. It ain’t their fault that he’s too slow. He’s gotten into the bad habit of spacing out

Dr. Zeigler’s eyebags have gotten worse. She tries to pretend that she’s not half asleep, and Jesse knows the feeling enough to not comment on it. He tells her that her hair looks nice, even though it really doesn’t. She doesn’t believe him. Jesse isn’t offended. He wouldn’t buy it either.

He’s fine with being friendly, but pleasantries get stuck in his throat. He’s much more used to just giving someone an empathetic “You look like shit,” and letting that stand however someone wants it to. He misses that, maybe more than he misses smoking. The contemptuous familiarity and the ugly humor—not pretty at all, but at least it was real. He learned how to banter the hard way, and it made his tongue too sharp and his delivery too smug. Now sincerity comes off as a lie and niceties as an insult.

It makes small talk feel like pissing on an electric fence, as Morrison so aptly described it.

Which is why he gets the urge to slam his head into a wall when Minerva informs him that Reyes wants to meet with him about four weeks in. He doubts Reyes invited him over to actually do something important.

Jesse heads over to Reyes’ office, despite his growing worry. The commander looks like shit. That cut across his face all those weeks ago healed into a shallow scar, but now he’s got gauze taped up the other side of his jaw. The bags under his eyes are heavy as ever, but he’s still sharp. Still attentive.

Reyes opens the conversation in his usual subtle and gentle manner. “You earned me an extra hundred bucks this week, so I forwarded ten percent to your card.”

And Jesse nods and sits down like he knows exactly what’s going on. He obviously doesn’t, but it’s the thought that counts. “Well, I’m always glad to be profitable. I’d be glad to do more if you’d clue me in.”

Reyes tsks. “Would if I could. One-time deal. Morrison bet me that you would cause a scene within the first two months.” The coffee pot behind him beeps, and Reyes turns to pour himself a cup. “I resigned myself to losing, but to my pleasant surprise, you pulled through.”

Jesse is a little irked by the lack of faith but it helps that Morrison and his smug face is a little poorer because of it. A more pressing matter is that Reyes has been asking about him. Jesse would like to assume that winning a bet is all Reyes wanted to talk about, and now he could go on his merry way, but he doubts that’s the case. “You asked other people how I was doing?”

“I asked if you were being a pain in the ass,” Reyes says. He gestures with his coffee pot to another mug, but Jesse shakes his head. Reyes shrugs, and continues, “But the sergeant politely asked what I had been smoking. She thought you were mute for the first two weeks because you had never opened your mouth before that. She only realized her mistake when you broke some recruit’s nose and apologized.”

Jesse tilts his head in confusion. He’s failing to see the problem. “You told me to fly below the radar. I’m doing that.”

“Yes, you are,” Reyes agrees blithely, “I’m just surprised it’s working.”

Jesse raises an eyebrow at the abundant lack of faith. “It’s a bit surprising to me, too,” he says, “but I’m usually a lot less trouble than I’m worth.” He tries to be worth quite a lot on any given day, so it gives him a little wiggle room for the bullshit that he occasionally partakes in.

“I was hoping so.” Reyes drinks about half his mug in one go, refills, and then says, “Anyways, while I always love a chance to con the Strike Commander out of his hard-earned cash, that wasn’t what I called you here for. If you’ve been paying attention, and you should have been, you’d know that tomorrow is the beginning of munitions training.”

Jesse had not been paying attention, and he visibly perks up. Finally, finally, finally.

“Knowing you, it’s probably a waste of time to put you with the newbies, so I need to figure out what to do with you.” He flicks his wrist at one of the holo displays, and it springs up with a list. “You know the major tenants of fire arm safety?” He asks, his voice a little mechanical.

Jesse tilts his head in surprise. It’d been a while since he needed to recite them. Deadlock had been a case where there was only one requirement, and that was don’t shoot anything you don’t intend to. But he knew them by heart, because his mom had guns, and they hadn’t exactly had a safe to keep them in.

Well, according to her there was also one major tenant, and that was “Don’t touch these.”

Still, Jesse knows how to speak on command, and this isn’t a question that requires a lot of thought. “Treat every gun as if it were loaded.” Even if that rule had screwed Jesse over in recent memory, it was probably did more good than harm on average. “Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re gonna shoot.” Which is a good one that he still follows because otherwise he’d have shot a lot of people by accident. “Know what’s behind your target.” Like other people or merchandise or grenades.

Reyes nods along, and he waits expectantly. “One more.”

Jesse narrows his eyes before he catches his mistake. And it’s kind of a big one, because it’s the most important. “Never point at anything that you aren’t willing to destroy.”

Reyes nods again, satisfied. “So now that I’ve confirmed you won’t dazzle anyone with a display of gross incompetence that requires a med bay visit and a lot of paper work, let’s talk about what you need.”                                                                                  

Although the message itself is sarcastic, the last part is what grabs his attention. “Need?”

“Bear with me,” Reyes says, finding a pen and pad of paper before he starts. “Who taught you to shoot?”

Despite the entirely different circumstances, Jesse feels like he’s back in the cell where he started. And ended. He shakes it off, and actually puts a little thought into the question. “Mostly me.”

“Really?” Reyes waits for more elaboration.

Jesse shrugs in reply. “I mean, my mom taught me to shoot first, but that was mostly just safety and basic stuff. I picked up a few things from other people, but the accuracy just comes from a lot of practice.” He put in hour after hour to get to where he’s gotten. Learning the art of adjustments, of visualizing, of feeling your way any specific weapon took a lot of work. And he’s gotten a lot of experience with a lot of weapons. “I can’t promise pinpoint accuracy with any given thing, but I know my away around most any make and model by virtue of the trade.”

“I figured that was the case.” He makes a short note on his paper pad, and it’s angled at such a way that Jesse doesn’t even bother to try and see what it is. “Morales described some pretty impressive shooting in her mission reports. And you managed to do quite a bit with limited ammo. What’s your specialty?”

“Jack of all trades, really,” Jesse says, and he isn’t bragging. “I like revolvers most, but that’s a personal preference more than a matter of skill.”

Reyes snorts. He gestures with his coffee cup to Jesse’s hat and says, “To match the cowboy gimmick?”

Jesse rolls his eyes. He’s stopped wearing his Stetson to basic because he’s liable to ruin it, but people give it enough glances in his free time. He’s used to getting shit for his hat because it’s big and out of place—but it’s his. It’s got his name on it.

“The ammo’s cheap,” he defends. “And it’s harder to zone out when you can count all your bullets.” And Deadeye is best with six. More makes him want to claw his eyes out.

Reyes blinks at him. “Zone out?”

Jesse drums his fingers on his thigh, searching for a better descriptor. “Lose track of what you’re doing. Forget where you are. It’s good to have something to focus on so you don’t just go in guns blazing and leave yourself without cover.”

Reyes hums, pleasantly surprised. “Smart.”

Jesse’s eyes widen, and then he looks away so he won’t be staring at Reyes like a moron. “Mostly just common sense,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. His gun was the other thing people usually gave him shit about. Not automatic enough for their tastes. Too few bullets. But it was the best thing he had in terms of accuracy and mobility, and no one who mattered would ask him to trade up.

And if they did, it was only ever for about two minutes.

“You’d be surprised by how often I talk to people who lack that,” Reyes says, clicking his pen once.

 

* * *

 

In the end, Reyes just took him to the gun range. Talking only gets so much done. It’s a good thing that Jesse likes putting his money where his mouth is, because he got to show off quite a bit. He didn’t get to work with his gun of choice, but he must have done well enough with the semi, because Reyes is quick to stick him in advanced lessons.

He still has to complete the rest of basic, which is a pain. At least he’s got access to the range and now he’s got the clearance to request access to solo simulation runs. He might get around to it if he can quit landing his ass in the med bay.

“I swear,” Dr. Zeigler huffs, her exasperation about as well-meaning as can be, “I see you every week for some reason or another.”

Jesse isn’t exactly thrilled to be back either. “Somebody’s got it in for me. I keep getting paired up with some black-belt Krav Maga asshole.”

Zeigler raises an eyebrow as she inspects his swollen purple wrist. “I don’t believe Krav Maga has a belt system.”

Jesse grits his jaw as the Doc bends his wrist too far. “If it did, this guy would have one.”

Dr. Zeigler sighs, and she goes off in search of a splint and an anti-inflammatory pack. “It would seem counter-productive to assign you a partner so far above your skill level.”

Jesse grimaces. “Yep,” he agrees, as if said Krav Maga asshole isn’t currently getting his knee and nose sewn back together courtesy of Jesse in the office next door.

Dr. Zeigler makes short and relatively painless work of his aching wrist, but her hands pause as she finishes the wrapping. “Oh,” she says, drawing his long sleeves further up his arm, “I didn’t know you had another tattoo.”

Jesse stiffens and jerks his arm away, wincing at the pain that radiates up his arm. Dr. Zeigler gives him an alarmed look, but Jesse only pulls the sleeve of his shirt back down. She only saw the bottom. Just the curl of the ribbon. He breathes slowly past the suddenly rapid pace of his heart. “Sorry,” he mutters, hesitating before he extends his arm again, “they’re a bit private.”

It works like magic. Zeigler’s second biggest buzzword is _privacy,_ falling close behind _confidentiality_. She regains her composure and nods, before dropping the subject entirely. Zeigler is the kind of person who doesn’t sidestep uncomfortable situations. She walks through them and then never looks back. 

Jesse appreciates that. He’s too used to dealing with people who can’t mind their own business. He’d also hate to put the past few weeks of exclusively wearing long sleeves to waste.

“How’s the headache going,” Jesse asks, hoping to fill the silence.

Bingo.

Zeigler, for all her perpetual motion madness, gets sidetracked easier than a drunk toddler. “Oh,” she says suddenly, practically lighting up. “One of our main researchers is making incredible strides!” She waves her hands excitedly, and it reminds him that for all her exhaustion and brilliance, she’s still young.

Jesse fights to not look smug, and he leans forward. “Come on, spill.”

“So, our first projects all centered around developing neuroprosthetics,” she lectures, “and that was the original direction we were given—to figure out a way to integrate prosthetics with human beings.”

Jesse’s known plenty of people sans an arm or a leg or two. They got along with walking and grabbing, if you could afford the tech. “So is this different than the, uh—” he waves to his arm, trying to find the words— “Sticky-things?”

Zeigler nods. “Those are external sensors, and we’ve had them for a while. Mr. Lindholm has an arm that uses the same technology. The initial prototypes were developed almost fifty years ago, but they aren’t very sensitive or precise. And they only work if the nerves are intact up to a certain point, which leaves many people with nerve damage without a viable option.”

Jesse blanches a little. He took out, what, two vertebrae? That would probably constitute as nerve damage.

“Everyone was running themselves ragged with simulations and theoretical work,” Dr. Zeigler says, “And I was working with my older brother on an approach that would use directed nanobiotics, but all the while, our lead geneticist is making leaps and bounds in reversing cell differentiation.”

Jesse nods slowly. “And that would be. . . ?”

Zeigler catches herself and rewinds for his benefit. “Cells,” She explains, “are all different, yes? Well, they are different because in a differentiated cell, DNA that isn’t needed is wrapped up and not transcribed. We used to think that this was permanent—that cells terminated at this point. But now we are working through how to reverse this process at will.”

Jesse squints. “So you’ll end up with a bunch of, uh, stem cells or something, right?”

“Exactly,” Dr. Zeigler says. “And if we can use them to regrow neural tissue, there’s no risk of the body rejecting a mechanical or biological transplant.”

“Sounds useful,” Jesse says, kind of getting the gist but also prepared to take his leave. “Shame it didn’t show up down the evolutionary line.” He grabs his com off the table and waves farewell.

“Only when we control it.” Zeigler stares at her screen blankly, her brain tumbling down some new rabbit hole. “Some of the most aggressive cancers we’re still dealing with will dedifferentiate automatically.”

Jesse pauses by the door. He clears his throat. “Not like—” he gestures to his chest.

Dr. Zeigler’s eyes widen and she shakes her head. “Oh, no,” she assures, “No. We caught yours early. It was still only a grade one. Practically the exact same as other cells. You’re fine.”

Jesse nods shortly, and then he forces himself to quit chasing his own rabbits. He grins and says, “Alright. See you this time next week? Probably for the same reason?”

As expected, Dr. Zeigler peeks up for her desktop, her expression stern. “If you go back to that madhouse before your bruises disappear,” she threatens, “I’ll put you on extended medical leave.”

Jesse snorts. “I hear ya, doc.” He departs with a wry tip of his hat, a little more at ease. It’d been dumb to assume anyway. Dr. Zeigler, nanobiotic fanatic that she is, had been quick to target all the little cancerous cells he had. Nanites didn’t know what they were treating half the time, and they’re difficult to direct. The last thing she wanted was to give cancer a leg up.

Jesse will follow that mindset more or less. He’d still break bones for a cigarette, because absence has made his heart a little too fond, but he’ll be damned if he ruins his lungs again. Mostly because Dr. Zeigler will probably kill him herself, but also because Jesse enjoys not gasping for breath after taking the stairs. Or running. Or doing anything. It genuinely makes his day.

Jesse looks over his wrist. It’s all wrapped up, but his fingertips are less red. He can even bend them, just a little. Still, that’s probably a sign that he’s done for the day. He sighs. Eating is going to be a pain without his left hand—but it’s probably good to practice with his right more.

If he’s not healed enough to do drills or sparing tomorrow, he could try his right hand at the shooting range. He’s gotten too comfortable with just his left. His mom used to nag him about making a habit of it. Lefties are memorable if people are paying enough attention.

“You!”

Jesse stiffens. He’s ripped from his thoughts, his eyes widening in surprise. The waiting room for is nearly empty. Except for one person.

Fareeha Amari jumps up from her seat in a plastic waiting chair. She’s dressed in a plain karate uniform, her short hair pulled into a disheveled bunch of braids. She points at him accusingly, which smothers the dumb hope that, maybe, she was just shouting at the empty room and wasn’t about to chew him out for anything.

She proceeds to chew him out.

“You know, it’s super rude to run out without saying goodbye,” she reprimands, hopping over on one foot. “Did mom find you before she left? She said she did, but I don’t believe her. Did she apologize? She said she did, but—"

Jesses rubs at his forehead, wishing he’d brought his hat. “What are you even doing here?”

 “I tried to do a back flip and I landed wrong,” she explains impatiently, jerking her leg to show him the ugly bruise swelling up around her ankle. “It can wait!” Jesse doesn’t think that’s the kind of thing that should wait, but Fareeha doesn’t give him room to share.

“Mom told me not to bother you, so I immediately went looking for you,” Fareeha says, “But you were gone.”

Jesse scrubs a hand over his face. “Look, kid, your mom has a good reason for what she told you.” He’d corrupt the youth or something like that if he was left alone with impressionable children. Or maybe Amari just didn’t like him in specific.

On second thought, its probably the second one.

“So you just won’t have any friends because my mom thinks it’s a bad idea?” Fareeha argues, her eyes sharp with annoyance.

Jesse raises an eyebrow. Is this friendship? He didn’t realize directions to the cafeteria and an informal interrogation counted as a contract. He’s needs to get his ass in gear and start making friendship bracelets for all his friends in Blackwatch.

Jesse reels in his acidic thoughts and ugly banter. He’s not going to bully someone a foot shorter than him. Instead he puts some genuine consideration into her question.

Will he have any friends?

Jesse laughs under his breath. He won’t have any friends because Jesse currently hates his life and nearly everyone in it. He didn’t need Amari to police his interactions because he was already doing it, because, surprisingly, this isn’t his fucking dream job. It’s his very nice prison sentence. Zeigler is the only person he willingly talks to on a regular basis, and he can only deal with her in short bursts. Reyes, despite not being quite as huge of an asshole as Jesse would expect, still owns him. Blackwatch owns him, Overwatch owns him, and you can’t be friends with people who own you.

It’s a bad idea.

“Yep,” He replies shortly. “That’s exactly it.”

“Hey,” Fareeha snaps, her face scrunching into something surprisingly angry, “Don’t get snippy at me. What’s so bad that I can’t even speak to you?”

“Just look up my name on the nearest computer,” Jesse says, his mouth twisting as he tries not to grimace. He’d hate to traumatize a child, and he’s pretty sure this is about as far from discrete as he can get, but he told Amari he’d not bother her kid. Even if her kid was bothering him. It’s all semantics at this point.

Fareeha waves her hands. “I have already. I did it immediately after you left and mom told me not to talk to you!”

“And?” Jesse asks, kinda curious despite himself. He doesn’t have a flattering reputation by any stretch of the imagination.

“And you don’t exist!”

Jesse’s brows furrow. “Pardon?”

“Nothing,” Fareeha says. “There is absolutely nothing about a ‘Jesse McCree.’”

Jesse blinks, the wheels grinding in his head. “Uh. Did you spell it right?”

“Yes! I know how to spell—I’m thirteen, not three.” She frowns, a line appearing between her drawn eyebrows. She looks a lot like her mom when she’s annoyed. Sharper and keener than she should be with such a babyface. “And I went to the seventh page of google. Nothing. I mean, there’s book characters or old priests or some journalist who died in 2041, but nothing about you!”

Jesse narrows his eyes. There should be. He’s not a household name, but he’s household-name adjacent. He’s been in the news. His name has at least. No one’s ever managed to get a good picture of him, and no one really had much information about him, but he’s seen the fucking articles. He’s read them. There should be police reports. There should be think pieces. He might not be the focus of them, but he’s sure as hell mentioned.

“Let me do it,” He says. It’s impossible to spit without hitting an open computer on this base, and there’s one within limping distance for Fareeha. He logs onto the guest access. Jesse technically has an account, but he can’t ever recall the password. He types in his name one precise press at a time, partially because he can’t type quickly with one hand. He glances over to see if Fareeha’s face will betray that she actually did spell it wrong and just didn’t want to own up to it.

She catches him looking because he ain’t exactly trying to be subtle, and the dirty look she gives in return is withering. She balances on her one good leg and reaches over to slam the enter button. “See?” She says, gesturing towards the screen, before she falls back into the rolly-chair Jesse had graciously forfeited.

And with a growing sense of ‘ _What in the hell?’_ Jesse does see. He sees book characters and an old Itallian priest and a journalist who kicked the bucket in 2041, but he doesn’t see any mention of him. He even goes to the eighth page of google. Then the ninth.

 He’s about to click the tenth page, but Fareeha taps his hand. “I told you: Nothing. What were you expecting to find?”

Jesse shakes his head, the furrow between his eyebrows growing deeper by the second. He drums his fingers on the counter twice and then he clicks back to the search bar. He types his next set of letters just as painstakingly as the first, but with a lot more hesitancy.

“Deadlock,” Fareeha says, the tilt of her head curious. “What’s that?”

Jesse looks over his shoulder and then presses enter before he can change his mind. Jesse blinks once. And then twice. And then he presses enter again and again to see if that will somehow change something.

_._

_._

_._

_Subject has no results._

“What the _fuck?_ ”

Fareeha jabs him in the side with her elbow. “Don’t _swear_ by the med bay,” she hisses, twisting around in her seat to see if anyone noticed Jesse’s improper behavior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo my birthday was yesterday, so if you wanna send a review my way it would mean the world to me


	11. As The Others Unto You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huge shout out to all the best people who inspired me to write so much so fast!
> 
> EDIT (4-12-18) Thanks to some amazing feedback by scottershoot, the ending of this chapter has been edited for clarity.

He’d like to say he did something smart.

He’d like to say that he waited. That he gathered information, that he planned meticulously, that he kept his mouth shut.

Instead, he got chicken tenders with Fareeha.

“I mean, maybe we’re overthinking it,” Fareeha whispers, her eyes darting around to keep track of any suspicious figures that might try to take them out with cafeteria-grade deadly weapons. She’s really wrapped herself up in the conspiracy. She’s got two glasses of apple juice, both of them still full. She hasn’t touched her food. “It could just be. . . a service error? We could try again.”

It looks like the two of them are a ‘we’ now. Jesse can’t complain. He’ll take all the brainpower he can get. It’s not like he’s the smartest tool in the shed. He’s about cafeteria-grade in that department. “Sounds like wistful thinking,” He says with a sigh.

“It’s called hope,” Fareeha grimly informs him. She runs a hand over her messy hair, which only makes the problem worse. “I’m trying to be optimistic.”

“Let’s be realistic,” Jesse says. He shuts his eyes to block out the migraine building in his frontal lobe. God, what he would do for a cigarette. “We’re on a military base. The system is blocking an entire search term.”

Fareeha considers her apple juice. “It’s probably Minerva. Mom talked about how the bases are starting to integrate her more that she’s nearing the end of her beta.”

Jesse grimaces and throws a subtle look up at the ceiling. “Which means she’s listening in?”

Fareeha shakes her head and once again sets her cup down without drinking anything. “She doesn’t have enough CPU. Especially not in crowded areas. Unless searching you up tripped an alarm.”

“Let’s be pessimistic and say it did.” Jesse drums his fingers over the table, his thoughts racing. He drops his voice as quiet as he can and mutters, “Do you think it was just for me? Or for everyone?”

Fareeha squints at him, but she matches his whisper. “Like, anyone else could find it? I couldn’t find your name even off base.”

So, his name might have just been wiped. It sets an uncomfortable weight in his stomach. He’s probably just as easy to erase as his name. A few clicks, one pop, and Jesse McCree will have practically never existed. “Not my name. The other thing.”

“You still haven’t told me what that is,” Fareeha says, her stare piercing. “But it doesn’t sound nice.”

Jesse drops his head into his hand and rubs at his temples. “It isn’t. Wasn’t.” He frowns. He already dropped the ball on being discrete, so it’s time to switch gears. “You’ll keep quiet about that, right? I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

The bait works like a charm. Fareeha frowns at him, offended. “I know how to keep a secret.”

“Thanks,” Jesse says, before launching back into the matter at hand. “But let’s just make the quick assumption that it was only for my benefit.”

“But why?”

“Trust me,” Jesse says sourly, tapping against the table top in a near-silent, but frantic rhythm.

“I do, I just want to know why—"

“Just do it,” Jesse snaps, his wired thoughts making his words loud and harsh.

Fareeha’s eyes widen. Then they narrow. She jumps to her feet and slaps her fists against the table, glaring something fierce. “Don’t talk to me like that,” She says, her voice low and cold and very controlled. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

Jesse leans back in surprise and then sneers at her sudden hostility—at her sitting there all imperious, nursing apple juice with all the dignity of scotch. She acts like Jesse asked her to be here, like he didn’t try to brush her off, like he wasn’t humoring her just to make sure she wouldn’t go running to her mom and spill everything. Acid burns at the back of his throat, bubbling up with all the ugly things he could say that would make her leave, make her quit bothering him, make her take a _hint._

_You’re welcome to get lost._

_If you don’t like it, leave._

_Look at you, getting’ all uppity on us, aren’t ya, kid—_

He could say any of that. Could, could, could.

Instead he lowers his head and breathes past the rush in his ears. Spite and anger and frustration burns him sick and sour, but he’s not about to spread his misery just ‘cause he can. “You’re right,” He murmurs, swallowing all his ugly feelings until they dissolve and disperse. “I shouldn’t act like that. I’m antsy, but that ain’t no excuse to treat you wrong.”

He knows better. He should know better.

He’s got shitty manners and he isn’t especially polite, but he’s not gonna be a dick to a kid who just wants to help.

“I’m sorry.”

Fareeha stares at him with her dark eyes, searching for sincerity. Slowly, she sits back down. She purses her lips before she slides one of her glasses of apple juice over. “You should drink something. You look sick.”

Jesse laughs humorlessly, but he takes a sip at her prompting. It’s sweet enough to make him gag. He finishes it anyway. He’s had worse.

“If you won’t tell me,” Fareeha says into the stilted silence, “that’s fine. I just wanted to help.”

Jesse shuts his eyes, but he stops himself from shaking his head. Fareeha’s not going to have a magical solution to this. She won’t even have a decent one without all the puzzle pieces. And he won’t give her the solution, because once she knows, she’s not likely to help. She’ll probably do worse than help. “I know,” he says. “But you probably should take your ma’s advice. There’s better things to do than worry about my problems.”

Fareeha raises an eyebrow. “There are? Last time I checked, I’m barred from any physical activity for the next week until my ankle heals.”

Jesse peeks open one eye. “They didn’t just hit you with some fancy biotics?”

“Something about soft and hard tissues,” Fareeha says, waving her hand. “And you aren’t supposed to use them casually on people younger than sixteen. It messes with imunoresponses.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. I really do have nothing better except solve a few mysteries.”

Of course she doesn’t. Jesse sighs. “Then let’s try again. You can’t block an entire search term from a public engine. Even if you could, it looks fishy as hell. So, let’s assume it’s just for me.”

Fareeha twirls one of her braids around her finger, the gears in her head whirling away. “Then there’s something that’s being hidden. And if no one can find your name, it isn’t about people knowing about you. It’s about _you_ knowing about _it_.”

Why would anyone give a shit about what Jesse knows about? There’s nothing out there that would change his mind, and Reyes is the last person who would care if Jesse decided to quit. He already got everything he needed out of Jesse. He could change his mind at any point if Jesse did something he didn’t like, and there was fuck all Jesse could do about it.

After all, he doesn’t exist.

Fareeha snaps her fingers in realization, drawing him back to reality. “What’s something that would hurt you?”

 _Hurt_ him? Jesse shakes his head. “I doubt that’s what it’s about.”

“That’s because you’re a pessimist.” Fareeha twirls her hands, motioning for him to consider it. “You were recruited, right? And don’t tell me you weren’t, because you’re too young to go through the usual channels for combat personnel.”

Jesse’s jaw tenses. That’s too close for comfort. He opens his mouth to shift the conversation, but Fareeha interrupts him, talking quicker and quicker.

“Mom didn’t want me talking to you, and you know a lot about lying, so maybe you lied and went into your original career too young—‘Deadlock’ sounds like a strike team of some sort, so maybe you were kicked out, maybe it was disbanded, or not—so what if someone you knew in it died? Or they all did?” Fareeha watches him intently. She’s looking for the slightest slip to confirm her theory, but she’s too somber to just be fishing.

Either way, Jesse’s not about to give her an inch. “Interesting theory,” he says evenly.

Fareeha frowns. “Fine, fine, but just _think._ What would hurt you to know?”

Whatever it is, it ain’t about people dying. He killed Kneecap himself, Colt got brought in via body bag, and Jesse signed the death warrants for everybody else. That wasn’t a secret. He’s fine with people dying. He saw it, read it, had the pictures shoved under his nose. He saw Mari take the shot and not miss, he read the reports—

. . . Which were blacked out. Blacked out to the bone.

He never saw any pictures of Colt.

_What would hurt him?_

Or, a better question:

_What would make him change his mind?_

. . .

Not people dying.

Jesse rises to his feet. His legs are all rubber and his brain all static and his chest all lead. He’s not sure how he’s even walking anymore. “I gotta go.”

Fareeha gives him a dejected look, but she makes no move to stop him. “Don’t do anything rash.”

“No promises,” Jesse says, not meeting her eyes. No contact, no connection, to reason to stay.

Fareeha glares. “I’m serious,” she says. “Give me a few days, and I’m sure I can figure some things out.”

It’s hard to take her seriously, but Jesse isn’t a stranger to humoring people. He’s not a stranger to telling people what they want to hear.

He’s not a stranger to lying.

“You got it. See ya’”

Fareeha watches him go like she won’t ever see him again. Jesse isn’t a stranger to that feeling either. She picked up the foresight a little quicker than he ever did. It took a few years of never seeing someone again to realize when it was probable to occur. To repeat.

Or maybe Jesse’s just projecting. He picked up that vocabulary after his conversations with Mari. Mari, who lied and lied and lied, and Jesse ate it up just like anyone else. Mari, the person who should have tipped him off to the fact that he’s a sucker—that he can dish out falsities, but he can’t see the truth for shit.

Deadeye.

Blind.

He’d like to say he did something smart.

He’d like to say that he waited. That he gathered information, that he planned meticulously, that he kept his mouth shut.

Instead, he got chicken fingers with Fareeha, and the next morning, he dropkicked open Reyes’ office door.

Reyes doesn’t look up in shock. He probably knew Jesse was coming. It wasn’t like he tried to hide his footsteps. It wasn’t like an AI didn’t track his every step and modify his search history.

“Coffee?” Reyes is leisurely nursing his own mug, but he was kind enough to set out a cup for Jesse. “I know you’re not fond of it, but since you’re up so early, I figured I might as well try.”

That’s all it takes for the rush in his ears to drown out the last little bit of commonsense Jesse had. He stalks forward and slaps the cup straight off the desk. It shatters against the wall. Glass and coffee spray across the room.

Reyes raises an eyebrow and brushes a few droplets off his cheek. Then he shrugs, casual as can be. “Eh. Worth a shot.”

Jesse leans over the desk, his voice taunt as a steel cable. “Liar. You’re a filthy fucking liar—you know that?”

Reyes nods in easy agreement. “On any given day, sure. What in particular warranted this happy visit?”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Jesse snaps. “You know exactly what is going on.”

“No, I don’t. You’re acting like a dog backed into a corner. Use your words.”

_Don’t put people in a corner, Jess—_

He uses his fists again, because his throat is tight, and his jaw is welded shut. Shattered glass scratched some itch he had. Scratched it right out of his skin. He lashes out, aiming for a picture frame on his right.

In a flash, Reyes grabs his wrist. Jesse jerks back, but Reyes’ grip is iron. Not tight, not painful, but inescapable. He stares at Jesse for a moment before he plucks the picture frame off the desk with his other hand. Then he lets go.

Jesse yanks his arm back, his face burning. Reyes pays no mind. He spins around in his chair and sets the frame face down on the back cabinets. Jesse catches a glimpse of the photo before he does.

It’s Reyes, Amari, and Morrison. All squished together, arms slung over shoulders, dressed to the nines in combat fatigues.

“Huh,” Reyes muses as he turns back around, examining Jesse like some rare, exotic bug. “I’ll have to mark that down.”

A bug. Like he’s small and strange and Reyes could ultimately crush him underfoot if he wanted to. Jesse’s pulse beats in his ears, and it isn’t from fear. He isn’t a fucking child anymore, and that bullshit won’t work on him. “What!?” He shouts, something sharp and ugly pricking in the space behind his eyes.  “What’s so _damn interesting_ about me, huh?”

Reyes languidly blinks at him. “Your psychologist was convinced you weren’t actively suicidal.”

Jesse flinches at the threat. Reyes’ cool tone clamps down over the back of his neck like a set of teeth. He was on fire a second ago, but now he’s colder than permafrost. Like someone shoved dry ice down his throat, just to see if he’d freeze.

Reyes tilts his head, curious to see what Jesse will do next. He’s not worried in the least. After all, he’s got everything in his favor here. Reach, strength, authority. “But your behavior is beginning to convince me otherwise.”

The cold in his chest sharpens. It condenses. It gets smaller and smaller, reaches a singularity and all he’s got is anger. Black hole anger. Anger so deep that he can’t even begin to find the fucking floor. “I’m already dead, ain’t I?” Jesse’s nails bite into his palms. “You signed my goddamn death warrant.”

Reyes is unimpressed. “I signed your release papers, your authorization papers, and your medical receipts. Sorry, but I don’t recall a death warrant. You might want to be more specific.”

“He’s alive. Isn’t he? You told me he was dead and I never even asked for proof.”

Recognition flashes in Reyes’ eyes. “Ah. I was wondering which conclusion you jumped to.”

Jesse slams his hands against the desk. “I don’t hear a denial,” he snaps.

“You’ll wait for one,” Reyes says, sounding pretty certain of his own conclusion. “Please, do tell me the holes in my story. I’d like to cover all my bases in one go.”

Jesse glares, but he’s got plenty to argue with. “You offered me a job but you don’t seem too interested in collectin’. I just sat around for over a month, doin’ nothing, and you didn’t say shit.”

“You were on medical leave.” Reyes cocks an eyebrow. “There’s a difference.”

Yeah, Jesse has been there, done that. The fact remains, Jesse could have kept going and gotten ready faster. He could have been doing something useful already, and that means Reyes probably never had any intention of following through anyway. He’s been kept on ice, in case they needed more information. Nothing more.

He jumps to his next point. “You shoved Kneecap under my nose and let me stew with it. Why didn’t you have any pictures of him then, huh?” Because nothing existed. Because Reyes hadn’t figured out what would convince Jesse otherwise. Because—

“Because that was about you knowing we had immediate evidence against you.” Reyes looks bored. “I wasn’t interested in giving you extra information for you to focus on, because that would ruin the point.”

Jesse grinds his teeth. “You—"

“I’ve got a question of my own,” Reyes interrupts. “I know you’re cagey, so feel free to not answer. Would you have accepted if he were still alive?”

“No,” Jesse says instantly, “Because I fucking enjoy having skin.”

Reyes’ eyes darken. He flicks a single finger at his desktop. “Minerva, bring up evidence files for Midsun. Isolate Prizefighter, post-mortem.”

A holoscreen blooms up. Images load in jerks. Jesse can’t see them. They’re only displayed for the man behind the curtain. He can see the file outlines, though. They reconfigure every quarter second, trying to accommodate every object in an optimal configuration.

Reyes jabs at specific files and brings them to the foreground, his expression casually blank in way that means trouble. He pinches the corner of the display and spins it around without flourish. “Since I ignored your therapist on every other front, I thought I’d throw her a bone and not retraumatize you.” He scrutinizes Jesse’s reaction. “Looks like a wasted effort.”

There isn’t much to see. Jesse is standing straight and still and blank. Jesse’s black hole anger has collapsed in on itself, and now there’s just an absence. Just a hollow. Like someone scraped out his insides and filled him with static. Filled him with hornets. Filled him with cosmic background radiation.

There’s Colt. And, _boy_ , is he dead. There he is on the ground. Eyes blank. Their color is all wrong, the pupils too wide. That one’s from a morgue. White sheet and all.

The screen is too bright. It hurts Jesse’s eyes.

Reyes swipes his hand downward, and the holoscreen shrinks away. His jaw is tighter than it was when Jesse walked in. “And as long as we’re doing this, let me say with complete and utter certainty: Even if that asshole was still kicking, there’s absolutely nothing he could do to get to you.”

Jesse dig his nails into his palms until they sting. “You don’t need to get to people,” he says slowly. “You just need to offer a reward for their head on a pike.” And Jesse would warrant a huge reward. He stabbed anyone who ever did him a favor in the back, and then he kicked ‘em in the teeth for good measure.

Deadlock doesn’t talk. That’s law. That’s practically fucking scripture.

He’d be a bit more hung up on it if the power behind the threat wasn’t pushing daisies.

Looks like Colt doesn’t have the good Lord’s power of resurrection after all.

Reyes shakes his head. “Even if your bounty tripled, no one on this base would cash in.”

Jesse looks up from the floor. He feels like he should laugh. But his mouth won’t move right, and he gives up. “Money buys everyone. You just need the right price.” And he would be the right price right about now, if anyone alive cared enough to put their money where their mouth was. But really, nobody else was nearly as vengeful as Colt. Or as smart.

Reyes’ face hardens. “Money doesn’t buy _me_.”

Jesse tilts his head and looks a little closer. At Reyes, at his dark eyes and calm, edged voice. At his office, pictures and battle reports and news clips fighting for space on the walls. At his actions. How he ripped Jesse’s life to pieces and then decided Jesse might be useful enough to be worth the trouble.

Jesse could believe that money wouldn’t buy him.

But money isn’t the only currency in the world.

“Alright.” Still, he isn’t stupid enough to say that aloud. Even if he was stupid enough to put himself in this position in the first place.

 

Reyes stares at him for just a second too long. “I’ll make you a deal,” he says slowly, picking his words with care. “You think you’re ready for field work?”

It’s an honest question. It sounds like one at least. And Jesse thinks it deserves an honest answer. He’s getting his ass kicked on the daily in sparing, but he always gives as good as he gets. He can run without his heart trying to claw its way out of his chest. He didn’t put on his best showing with Reyes at the firing range, but he’s beat his aim and muscle memory back into line in the days since.

He’s been in field work. He’s been doing it for a while. And Jesse is honestly better prepared for it than he ever has been.

“Yeah,” he says. “I am.” He’s ready to get off this base and do something. He’s ready to hold up his end of the bargain. He’s ready to be worth enough that Reyes won’t change his mind.

Reyes nods, like he expected as much. “Then if you can complete a simulation run to my satisfaction, I’ll grant you agent status. If you fail, you stick to basic like every other recruit.”

It’s a nice deal. It’s a really nice deal. And that means there must be a catch somewhere. There’s always a string attached or some fine print that he can’t begin to find. “When?” Jesse asks, even though he feels like he already knows the answer.

Reyes grins like a shark, his teeth too bright. It’s a normal smile, really, except that Reyes doesn’t smile. Not unless he’s heard something funny, not unless there’s a joke to be had. And since it’s just the two of them, Jesse’s going to bet that the joke is on him. It usually is. “There’s no time like the present.”

Jesse rolls his wrist, still bruised and wrapped tight with bandages. Zeigler hasn’t cleared him yet. He didn’t sleep—and he looks about as good as he feels. Reyes is probably betting on that—on him not being at his best. If he wanted an accurate sim, he’d wait. If he wanted Jesse anywhere else, he’d have been trying out sims like this from the beginning.

Reyes doesn’t think he can do it. Reyes is betting on him _losing—_

Jesse narrows his eyes. Then he smiles. Not a sharp smile, not a threatening one. He’s not a threat. He’s not suspicious, of course not. He’s not thinking too much, he’s not already running all the ways that Reyes could sabotage him—because Reyes _is_ going to pull some sort of trick.

He grins too, and he grins like he just got done a favor. Like he got what he wanted. He grins like a moron, like he’s a fool who can’t spot a double meaning.

Deadeye.

Blind.

“You’re damn right there ain’t.”

Reyes is betting on him not being able to cut it.

It’s too bad for him that Jesse is a damn good gambler, and right now, he’s holding his cards close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 50,000 words and my brick joke about resurrection finally pays off. And yea, he ded
> 
> next chapter is probs going to be the biggest one yet and /boy/ is that going to take a while, but reviews are always the biggest help i could ask for! which line had you yelling? Who was your favorite character? what are you excited about? Thanks and see yall again soon (hopefully)!


	12. Snakes in the Grass Beneath Our Feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you might notice that this chapter is back to being short, and this is because i realized no one gets the notification/knows that it has updated unless i post a new chapter lmao
> 
> thanks for bearing w my slowness and lack of common sense

At some point, Lord knows when, Jesse actually tried to learn how to shoot a gun. He knew how to hold. He certainly knew how to fire. But without his own personal Deus ex Machina, he was just a dumbass working with the few lessons his mom had given him years before.

His tipping point came from necessity. He broke his arm trying to pop a wheelie. The bike tipped out from under him, and he’d stuck his arm out to catch himself—again, like a dumbass. The impact snapped his radius like a twig. Some public clinic took one look at his x-rays and practically started singing praises, because, hey, at least you didn’t shatter anything. He’d only need a cast for four weeks. Minimal rehab. Hallelujah.

Jesse had a harder time feeling the same way. He didn’t have four weeks. He had jobs to do, places to be. The good Samaritan who gave him a ride to the hospital without any orders or hesitation? Jesse would sign his praises to all the right people because he was thankful, but his pity wasn’t going to make bank.

And it was still Jesse’s fault. If it had been a car crash, a hit and run, some ugly, unexpected scuffle with local law enforcement—any of those things, and Jesse could count on some time off. But this? He wasn’t even going to think about complaining. He wasn’t about to pull some half assed cop out because of a mess he made.

And since he also didn’t want his brain to come streaming out his nose, he got himself a lefty gun and got to work.

Deadeye had a few tips and tricks and troubleshooting methods that made it easier to keep up with. One was actually being able to aim. Accuracy? A good friend. It cuts the time down if the gun can do the work for you. And cutting time down is important, because if you stand still in the middle of a fire fight with all eyes on you, you will get shot faster than you can say “Sorry.”

Not that Jesse was in the habit of saying sorry. Even if he sometimes felt it. Apologies are cheap and lives are cheaper, and if he wanted to keep the right people happy and his brain in between his ears, then he better learn how to aim without assistance.

Two months of shooting with a left-handed revolver, every day, hour after hour, and he just never went back. And he didn’t stop practicing. Because there’s another useful trick to cut down on his migraines and eye pains—

If Deadeye never comes around, then neither does the fallout.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha i have im really bad a chapter spacing and instant gratification


	13. Sun in the Clouds Above

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hewwo again. you might notice that this chapter is almost 8k. that is bc i am a monster with no self control. you may also notice a small shift in pov. again, this is bc i have no self control
> 
> EDIT: so somehow an entire scene got left of the begining of this chap and i only just now noticed lmao... now featuring 40% more banter.

Reyes himself takes the time to chaperone him to the sim prep site, which is just a mile or two away through the Zuric forests. On the short drive over, Reyes tells him all about it. He’s chatty. Verbrose. Expecting responses and commentary.

If it were anyone else, Jesse would just ignore them. All the chit-chat cuts short the time he has to plan and prepare. It keeps him out of his head. That’s probably the intention—he’s got sour adrenaline burning through his system from his little meltdown—and, shit, how fucking stupid was _that—_

But information is still information, even if Reyes talks fast enough that it leaves Jesse scrambling to keep everything straight.  He’s got to keep everything straight. There’s about one way for this to go right and a hundred ways for it to go wrong—And Jesse would hate for him to fail because of something stupid. These months without action have dulled him down, he can see that now. He needs to be sharp. Sharp as can be.

All it takes is a deep breath and a reminder of his priorities.

Commit. He’s here, he’s committed, and he’s going to win.

Six people, six hours. One safe house. One package to retrieve. This isn’t some short-term fire fight drill. It’s a live action, extended effort game. The kind housed off-campus, in actual abandoned urban areas. The kind reserved for agents who are looking for specialized certification.

Which means he’s going to need to be careful. He’s got to be focused.

They reach the prep area before the sun is even up. Jesse’s insomnia is to thank for that one. The site is a simple set up. It’s a bit like someone placed two shipping containers side by side, and then stacked another two on top, and then painted the outside military cameo to blend in with the thick foliage surrounding it. It works at night pretty damn well. Jesse didn’t spot it until Reyes shined his headlights on it at point blank range.

The inside is full of bins of gear—goggles and padding and the like. The walls are covered with those little pull down plastic curtains. It’s about twenty by sixteen feet, but the sheer amount of things packed inside makes it feel oddly larger. Or maybe that’s the ceiling; its at nearly fifteen feet.

No matter the reason, the basic concrete floors and the ridged metal walls are a throwback to every “abandoned” warehouse he’s had the misfortune to be caught in when summer rolls around. Except, here, even though it’s only October, no one looks at him strangely for wearing long sleeves daily. Here, the morning air is cool to the touch.

Jesse crosses his arms over his chest and eyes Reyes’ hoodie with a little spite. It’s too cold up here.

Maybe Reyes catches him staring, maybe he doesn’t. All he says is, “We don’t have all day, cowboy.”

That’s all it takes to convince Jesse. He gets suited up in actual tactical gear. It’s high-range stuff. The same things he used to sell. The body armor wraps around his chest like one of his old riding jackets. When he gets to the boots, he trades them out without hesitation. He’s a sentimental fool on the best of days, but he’s got too much on the line. The traction will do him better, even if the shoes are broken in all strange.

When Reyes tugs at the roll up curtain on the far wall with a lazy sort of showman’s flourish, he’s got that same little smile that makes Jesse want to check his pockets. When Jesse actually bothers to look at the mystery behind the curtain, he knows why.

“And these would be. . .?” Jesse runs a hand over a few plastic fire arms. All of them look some vague bastardization of an actual gun, without most of the things that make them work. They all got an orange ring painted around the muzzle.

“Paint ball. Makes it easier to keep track of fatalities and such.”

Jesse’s eyes narrow. And probably also makes it a bitch to consistently aim at longer ranges. “Cute,” he says shortly.

“I think so, too.” Reyes moves further down the wall at examines some separate compartment while Jesse scopes out which choice of a weapon will make his life easiest. There’s not a revolver in sight. Even if there were, it probably woulda been the most useless thing in the room. On second thought; good. This is a game, ain’t it? Seeing his favorite tool reduced to some play-thing would just be an insult.

“Color?”

Jesse spares a glance toward him, tossing a pistol-like model between his hands to judge the weight. “Huh?”

Reyes holds up a clear canister filled to the brim with pastel pink paint balls, shaped like honest to God little bullets. “Blue is usually reserved for the defending team, orange for the attacking. But, hey, orange isn’t really your color. Go nuts.”

Jesse humors him, partly because it was a little funny. He sets his first choice of gun down on the self and steps over. There are a few colors to pick from. More than expected, but not that many. Purple, green, gold, orange, pink, black. . . Jesse passes them over without much consideration. The choice practically makes itself for him.

“Red?” Reyes asks.

Well, if he’s gonna be playing at death, shouldn’t he make it look the part?

“It’s my favorite color,” he drawls, something that isn’t a lie and isn’t a truth. He never gave much thought to his favorite, but he reckons that red must suit him. He’s worn enough of it. “Wouldn’t airsoft or, I dunno, _anything_ else work better?”

Reyes shrugs. “These are a bit nicer than your usual civilian recreational units. It’s also biodegradable to get the swiss conservationists off our case. And the pretty colors keep the UN entertained.”

Jesse raises an eyebrow. “The UN tunes into these kinds of gigs?”

“The UN is marginally aware that you exist,” Reyes declares, “and it’ll be staying that way for a while. But the big wigs occasionally like to see how their money is getting spent.” Reyes tilts his head, the fake concern on his face about as sugary as cough syrup. “Why? Anxiety?”

Jesse turns away to disguise his eye roll. “Not at all. Jus’ wanted to know if I should be showin’ off.”

“Don’t let me cramp your style,” Reyes drawls, leaning back against the wall and spinning the keys to the jeep around his index finger. “By all means, be as flashy as you want.”

“Thanks.”

Reyes hums lightly. Then he shifts his weight and says, “You look like you know what you’re doing, so I’ll leave you to it.” He knocks on a draft table, loud and quick to get Jesse’s attention.

Jesse glances over, and Reyes tosses something at his face. Jesse flinches and snatches it out of the air on instinct. He keeps his eyes on Reyes for another half second in case Reyes decides to throw something else.

“Put that on,” Reyes says “Don’t leave base until you receive the signal.”

Jesse nods immediately. It’s a little flat microphone, about the size of a penny. He tugs at the peel-off adhesive lining the back and sticks it behind his ear. He hasn’t used these before, but he’s seen em. Two-in-one receiver and transmitter. Keeps your ears clear to minimize interference. Also makes it less likely that you’ll rupture your eardrum if someone kicks you in the head.

“And limit yourself to. . . let’s say these three.” Reyes picks out two identical pistols, and nods at a rifle to Jesse’s left. “All lefty models are in use. Hope it won’t be too big of an inconvenience.”

Jesse refuses to grimace. Not at the inconvenience, and definitely not at the downright peppy tone Reyes is throwing his way. His left wrist is still swollen and bruised to hell. He not going to be able to grapple with that hand, much less shoot—not with any accuracy, at least. “Not at all,” He says shortly.

 _“Asshole,”_ he leaves unsaid and only marginally implied.

 Reyes grins. “Great. Map to the site is on the far wall. If you don’t see an abandoned factory, you’re in the wrong place.” He heads to the door and pauses for just a moment by the entrance. But he doesn’t turn back. Just pauses, and then keeps on walking.

Jesse drums his fingers over the work table until the sound of the car’s engine fades away. Then he starts filling up his magazines. His last day in Deadlock, he’d been caught with five bullets to his name. Today will be his last day as a recruit, and he’ll be damned if he hasn’t got five magazines a piece to every gun on his person. After all, Reyes never said he had to limit his ammo.

Actually, now that he’s got a chance to look at what he’s working with, he’s gonna have to give R&D their dues. These peashooters are a bit more complicated than meets the eye. The paint balls gotta be oriented specifically, and they aren’t nearly as soft as they look. So at least he isn’t walking into this with a glorified marshmallow gun.

Jesse frowns. Fancy gear or not, that somehow doesn’t make it less of a joke. Reyes obviously finds the whole thing hilarious. Blackwatch is a nicely kept secret, so the odds that any active agent does shit like this is slim to none. This whole thing is just for him. Only him. It’s downright insulting.

Reyes is counting his obvious lack of sleep to make him stupid. He’s counting on being able to put Jesse on ice for whatever reason, because he thinks Jesse won’t be able to cut it. He thinks it will be hard to kill six people in six hours. Jesse can do it in six seconds. He’s done it in less, and Reyes should know that.

It makes no sense. Jesse’s here. He’s willing to pull shit detail with a _smile_ as long as he can get away from HQ and its tight schedule and boring routine. He’s got combat experience, no matter what Reyes wants to say about it. Now that he’s no longer the proud owner of a pair of pre-cancerous lungs, he shouldn’t be trudging through basic like some green newbie. Reyes knows what he’s capable of.

What was it that Morrison called him? A charity case?

Jesse’s jaw tightens, and so do his fists. The paint bullet bursts between his fingers, and red spills out. It’s oil-thin and slippery and fluorescent bright. Some of it drips on the floor. Jesse curses, but he manages to find an old towel (by the multi-colored looks of it, probably one reserved for cleaning up precisely this scenario) before he makes too big of a mess.

Even still, he’s still got pigment all up under his nails and smeared across his skin. It’s familiar. More familiar that even the wall of weapons or the metal walls. The guns are fake and the walls have a forest waiting just outside. But scrubbing his hands under lukewarm faucet, watching tinted water flow down the drain—that’s something that takes him right on back to where he needs to be.

Focused. Keyed in and wired up. Like he’s half-way out of his body, ready to float up to the ceiling for a better vantage point.

Or it would, if there wasn’t a weight circling the crown of his head. Jesse pauses. He carefully removes his hat and turns it over in his steady hands. It’s old and well-taken care of and liable to get completely ruined so long as he’s getting his hands dirty.

_I got you something. Right on time for once, too._

Jesse scoffs and shakes his head. Focused. Keyed in. He sets his hat down on the draft table. He returns to his gear, and his hands are stable and quicker than mercury. No more twitchy trigger fingers, no more tapping to keep himself occupied. He’s all business.

If Morrison thinks he’s a charity case, that would mean he’s got Reyes’ pity. That right there brings a smile to his face, and it’s about as bitter as the taste in his mouth. Pity. That’s got an expiration date that spoils quicker than milk.  

Jesse rolls his shoulders and checks his gear one last time. Everything in place.

When his signal comes through, Jesse throws one dispassionate glance to his hat and tightens his grip on his play-rifle. Fuck charity and fuck pity. Jesse ain’t got a use or need for either. And now is the time for him to put his money where his mouth is and make sure that everyone else knows it too.

After all, most charities are scams.

* * *

 

“So, this is where you go when you’ve got nothing better to do?” Jack invites himself into the modest control center, already back to work in his flashy uniform.

Gabe quirks an eyebrow at both the unexpected visit and the comment. “You know where I go, boy-scout, and that is straight to sleep.”

Jack laughs. He’s been in a good mood. Ana’s got Fareeha with her, which means she doesn’t care if he goes and gets his ass blown up on some war front. He just has to be back within four to six business days. One look confirms that the strike commander is already back in his combat boots, which means he either overdid it on the biotic or he’s just tuning out his fractured bones.

“Oh, you’re putting him in a sim?”

Gabe bets it’s the latter.

“He kicked down my door this morning, pissed as all hell.” Gabe snorts, throwing a glance to the examination screens. “I’m glad I didn’t take you up on your second bet.”

 “Damn,” Jack mutters, but he’s busy looking at the holo-feed, sizing up the parameters. “Solo sim? With that many people?”

Gabe shrugs. “I gave him a deal. He wins, he can skip basic and get in on the action.”

Jack’s eyes light up with interest. He’s too nosy for Gabe’s own good. “Did he get cocky?”

“He got scared,” Gabe corrects, debating how willing he is to have this conversation. The answer is a firm ‘not willing enough.’

“He’s paranoid,” Gabe continues. “Deadlock had some nasty farewell rituals.” Nasty didn’t really cover it. Taking a plea bargain was guaranteed to lose you some teeth at the minimum. The threat of expulsion was enough to override the self-preservation instincts of most people.

Or keeping quiet was the self-preservation instinct. Either way, it didn’t matter now.

“Sounds to me like he’s bored.”

“Sounds to me like you’re projecting.”

Jack considers the screens for another second, weighing whether this is entertaining enough to warrant his attention. Then he pulls out a chair and settles down for the show. “How long does he got?” _How long will this take?_

Gabe can’t help that his smile is a little mean. “I _just_ realized,” he drawls. “I think I told him six hours. I meant to say _point_ six.”

Jack rolls his eyes, but he’s also obviously trilled at the idea of not missing breakfast. “Not even giving him a chance, huh?”

“If he’s good enough for Blackwatch, then he’s got a chance.” Gabe checks the time. It’s officially daylight. Fresh shift changes and better visibility for anyone keeping an eye out. Sadly, the kid looks completely ready to go. Eh. Can’t have everything.

“The two of you are incorrigible.”

Jack grins, throwing a look over his shoulder at a very disappointed Ana, who had evidently decided to join in on the unplanned get together. “You know it.”

Ana doesn’t frown, but she isn’t smiling. Just morose. Shoulders slumped and a small crinkle between her eyebrows.

Gabe narrows his eyes in concern. “I thought you took the day off?”

Ana sighs, and she comes over to take a seat at the control desk. “Fareeha left before I woke up to go chat with her friends back home. She seemed upset about something last night.” She props her chin up in her hand, idly looking at the info screens. “I thought it best to give her space.”

“Eh, she’s probably upset about breaking her ankle,” Jack says. “Kept bugging Gabe about basketball and now she won’t get a rematch.”

Jack tries for sympathy, he really does, but it’s not that simple and he should know it.

“Yeah,” Gabe says slowly, “That’s probably it.”

Of course, no one ever accused Gabe of being reassuring.

Ana shakes her head, but she only tilts her chin towards one of the holoscreens. “Breakfast after this is over?” She’s settling into her seat, mildly interested in the stakes despite her own her own preoccupations. Or maybe because of them. Ana doesn’t care for gambling as much as she does distraction.

Gabe adjusts his microphone and smiles. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

* * *

 

Jesse figures out where he needs to be without any fuss. It’s a bit harder to do it without being seen. The forest is creeping in on the abandoned relic of the site. It hasn’t been touched since long before the Omnic Crisis. There’s bushes and saplings tearing through concrete, but the trees are all starting to lose their leaves. It limits his hiding spots the closer he gets.

Still, he circles the site until he finds a decent stakeout spot. There’s a smaller, squat building arranged separate from everything else, with nature eating away into the crumbling asphalt. The main building is much bigger; long and rectangular, with spindly fire-escape scaffolding clinging the outside. Metal gates line the longer side, where the ghosted shells of decommissioned eighteen wheelers wait, lined up haphazardly. He might be able to find an entrance through there. If he could do it without crossing no-mans-land.

The first two guards round the corner. They move in a practiced rhythm, one of them keeping behind the cover of the rotted-out husks of cars and trucks as the other crosses over. They take it slow. They take it careful. Their eyes cut into the treeline.

Jesse stills. And then he lowers himself to the ground and crawls back. Inch by inch, until he’s out of sight. No calls of alarm. No paint coming his way.

That’s two people accounted for. Look out duty. Someone probably is up on the roof keeping watch, too. Jesse narrows his eyes, but he can’t get a clear look from here. And he’s not going to the ground with people patrolling the sides.

He looks around until his finds a tree with low enough branches for him to scale. The forest is old and filled with thick trunks. He takes it slow, hiding behind the trunk while he climbs. The vantage point gives him a better perspective. One quick sweep confirms, yeah, there’s a scout keeping watch on the roof. They’re lying on their stomach atop the highest vantage point, binoculars pressed to their face.

Three people outside. Huh. Not how Jesse would have set it up. That leaves three people inside. And they have to sleep. There might only be one person keeping watch over the package.

That suits Jesse just fine. Looks like defense got the short end of the stick. There’s not enough people to cover the space at all times. He might just be able to sneak past the guard once he figures out the schedules. Not usually his style, but he’s walking in with a paint gun. It’s one of those days where he might as well switch it up.

“So,” Reyes drawls, interrupting his planning. “Are you going to forfeit? Or just waiting for a rush of inspiration?”

Jesse furrows his eyebrows even as his stomach twists. “What?” He asks, his voice flat.

“Oh.” Reyes is downright bouncy in comparison. You can hear the smugness coming off his breath. “Intelligence mix up. You had thirty-six minutes from when I said ‘start.’”

Jesse tightens his grip on the tree. And then he starts climbing higher. “Huh,” he says. “You should probably fire your intelligence, then.” Ground patrol is about to slink around the corner to his left. That’s about a three minute ‘round patrol. Give or take. The eyes in the sky are still perched closest to him.

“I’ll get to it later.”

Jesse wedges himself into the branches, and he judges the distance. Even with the slope of the land and the tree, he’s still at a height disadvantage.  “So how much time do I have?” Ground patrol is out of sight.

“Eighteen minutes. But don’t let that rush you.”

Jesse can’t help it—his mouth curls up into something bitter as coffee. Here he was thinking he’d have to wait hours for the penny to drop. Hilarious. He slots the butt of his rifle against his shoulder, the plastic cool to the touch. “Oh,” Jesse murmurs, staring down the sights of the gun. He smiles. “And here I thought you were about to give me sad news.”

He fires three times in quick succession, sweeping up and over to adjust for fall off. The first shot misses. The other two don’t, and red explodes vividly over the side of the building and the lookout’s head and shoulders. That’s all nice and well, but Jesse hadn’t braced himself for the explosive _bang_ that just gave away his position. Whatever. He’ll have to roll with it.

Jesse slings the weapon back over his shoulder and descends from the tree. His left hand isn’t very happy with him climbing, but it’ll just have to get in line. “Give my props to the R&D department,” Jesse says evenly. “Not half bad.”

The two on ground have already gotten to cover on his far left. Jesse drops to the ground, behind the tree. Options. Options. They will have already alerted the other three inside. Stealth is out the window.

“Oh, I don’t think they liked that.”

Jesse rolls his eyes. He could do without the voice in his ear. “Shame.”

One quick peek shows that the ground patrol is still searching, weapons at the ready. They’re too far and under too much cover to get a shot at this angle. Jesse could circle and leave ‘em, but then they could come at him from behind. Better to deal with it now.

He retreats further into the trees and sets off at a steady lope towards his next targets. And then he goes further past them, until he’s nearest to the entrance proper of the warehouse. The ground patrol chose their cover well. He can’t get a line of sight. Not without getting closer, and they’ve got eyes on everything.

Jesse could climb up again and he might be able to hit one at this range, but then he’d give away his position. The leftover would relay it back to the remaining people. He would be left in a shoot-out with a bunch of leaves as his cover, up a tree without a reliable way down.

Shit like this was always easier when you had an explosive conveniently rigged for you. Or a buddy to draw attention.

Jesse narrows his eyes. He hasn’t had enough time to get a feel for these weapons. But if he could just get a proper angle, from further back and higher—

No.

Jesse shakes his head. He’s getting lazy. These months with nothing to do have dulled him down. A puzzle this easy wouldn’t have bothered him before. He’s not jumping the gun now. Not with three more people to deal with. Not in some game.

He draws a deep breath, and then he opens his eyes.

“It’s getting a bit boring on my end,” Reyes says.

Jesse doesn’t say anything. Instead, he slowly crouches and reaches for a chunk of concrete. It’s dense and well-weighted. He flings it to his right, as far as he can. It sails through the air, crashing into the ruptured pavement.

It does the trick. The one closest to him turns, looks to the other side of the old truck. The one on the right takes a step back for better coverage. Jesse can’t see him.

Which means they can’t see him either.

Jesse darts forward, closing the distance in a flash. The one closest to him, his head swivels back over just in time to see the paint ball coming his way, reeling back for cover. It explodes over the side of the truck—gun pulls to the right, noted—and Jesse throws himself to the right.

The uneven ground jabs into his spine and scrapes his cheek, but he comes up in a crouch on the opposite side of the truck, right under guard two’s distracted nose. Jesse whips his arm up and over, pushing the muzzle away just as he fires a clean line of shots up—solar, chest, chin.

The precious moment while they’re still standing, Jesse heaves them away from the side of the truck, peeking under their left arm and aiming under their right. And he when he starts firing, he doesn’t stop until the clip is spent.

Then its quiet. Jesse pushes away from his meat shield, ejects the empty magazine and reloads. The two guards look at each other, their safety goggles both smeared with paint.

“Well, shit,” human-shield says. Then he sits down. The other follows suit, scrubbing at their cheek with the back of their hand.

Jesse rises, the time limit still breathing down his neck. But as he passes the second one, he stops and turns. No need for ammo or weapons, he’s still got plenty to him, but there’s an edge he’ll need to take advantage of. He’s reaching towards the body, when it leans back, eyes widened in alarm.

Oh. Yeah. Not really dead. “If you’d be so kind,” Jesse says, tilting his head and tapping at the microphone under his own ear.  

The person scoffs, but they peel off their microphone and hand it over.

Jesse muffles it in his fist. “Thank you kindly.” He sets off at a jog towards a potential entrance he spotted earlier. The microphone mumbles and mutters as Jesse grinds the weak adhesive into the skin under his other ear, trying to make it stick.

_“Bravo, report. Bravo. Report.”_

It refuses to stay on for more than a few seconds. Jesse gives up and settles for holding it up to listening. He fumbles with it before he gets a decent grip. His wrist was swelling up again, aching and throbbing. His fingers are back to being numb and slow.

_“Bravo team is also down. Charlie, you two are up.”_

So, everybody is awake. Figures.

_“Charlie here. Approaching via south entrance.”_

Jesse throws a look to the sky, to the sun creeping over the tree tops. Looks like he’s due for his next shoot out right about now. So much for sneaking. He _could_ try another entrance, but then he’d have people behind him. Better to leave no loose ends. Everything neat and tidy.

He’s still got fourteen minutes by his count.

And, although it takes a little longer than Jesse would have liked, he doesn’t leave any loose ends. Charlie isn’t very quiet, and their cautiousness can’t cover that. It’s just a matter of being quick. Hitting hard and fast, and not giving them room to breathe.

Deadeye crossed his mind again, as it drew on. But he was already halfway done. And it’s not a party trick. Not something to pull out on a whim.

But that focus: That quiet space, where everything slows down and _stops_. He does miss that. He misses it like he misses cigarettes, like he misses drinking. Something that takes the edge off, if only for a second.

Something familiar.

Something he doesn’t need.

Two magazines, a bit of thinking later, and one sacrificed rifle later, Charlie is down for the count. And then there’s only one. 

Jesse rolls his shoulders and then picks up his first discarded pistol from off the ground, taking a moment to reload the magazines. He taps at his microphone. “What’s my time?”

“Eight minutes,” Reyes says cheerfully. “And a bit of change. Mission objective hasn’t moved.”

Odd. If it had been up to Jesse, last man standing should have hauled ass by now. But that works in his favor, so he won’t complain. He shakes out his hurt wrist one last time—not painful anymore, but not looking nice by any means—and decides on the door Charlie had entered from.

“It’s just you?”

Jesse quirks an eyebrow at the shorter member of the now-dead Charlie. Who should, by Jesse’s understanding of the playground rules, not be talking. But, hey, he’s got eight minutes. He can afford to humor her. “Yeah,” He says shortly. “Just little ol’ me.”

The woman sighs and mutters, “It figures.”

Jesse gives the red-stained Charlie duo a short salute and starts hunting down his last objective. He lost his stolen microphone in the whole scuffle, but no point in grabbing another.  Not like last-man-standing had anyone to talk with.

He takes care to keep quiet and stay alert as he pads down the hallways. Getting lazy or cocky would kill him faster than a hornet, but he can’t tramp down on the electric thrum under his skin. He’s—he’s winning. He didn’t bite off more than he can chew or shoot himself in the foot and now he can—fuck, he doesn’t know—move forward?

Once he gets out there, Reyes will see Jesse can be worth his weight in gold. Jesse has tallied the numbers every night he can’t sleep. Right now, he’s at a deficit. The kind of deficit that made smart people cut their losses—Kneecap just being the most prominent example of how that worked out. And the gap is only growing.

Even if this was a scam, even if Reyes never meant to give him the time of day, even if he’s still got a supermax with his name on it for the day Deadlock fully kicks the bucket—this should get some pause. Because while he will admit, he had a few things to learn and a few medical issues to clear up, he could have been doing something long before now. This should get Reyes to consider letting Jesse follow through on his end of the deal.

And then he slams into two agents in the middle of swapping cover.

They’re almost as surprised as he is, and it shows in how quickly everyone manages to lose their guns.

In the chaos, Reyes chimes in, “Oh, intelligence appears to be wrong.” Jesse lifts the man’s spare firearms, but it slips and goes skidding across the floor. Fucking _wrist_. “Looks like enemy forces are numbering twelve.”

Jesse can’t respond, as much as he would love to. He jerks his head around just in time—a hand ghosts past his long hair. He pivots and uses the momentum to yank the bastard off her feet and flip her over his shoulder.

It’s a mistake. A foot strikes at the back of his leg, sending Jesse to his knees, and the crack of bone against cement sends pain ricocheting all up his spine. He ducks just quick enough to avoid a strike that clips the top of his neck.

Jesse retaliates with a hiss, swiping back and behind to hook his elbows around the assholes’ knees—he slides his hands down, sinking his nails into the top of the man’s combat boots.

He braces.

Tenses.

_Heaves._

The agent goes plummeting, feet yanked forwards and knees pushed backwards against Jesse’s shoulders. He slams into the floor. The shock knocks him breathless, and Jesse would follow up if the bastard he flipped over his shoulder would stay down instead of trying to crush his windpipe. Jesse blocks her hook with his bruised wrist, and the shooting pain leaves him stunned.

This isn’t a spar—this is what Reyes meant with his disdain and absence.

_“I don’t have a use for cannon fodder.”_

Jesse snarls, and he lunges to his feet with his one good leg. He forces his slow knee into a strike for the woman’s face—she leans back to avoid, catching his foot with an iron grip. His leg wrenches straight, the sudden stop destabilizing him. He wobbles and yelps, but he stays upright.

Then his ankle twists inwards, forcing his hip to follow. Jesse’s eyes flash wide and he tramps down on the urge to resist. Just another burpee. Just another exercise—except the floor behind him is softer. He pivots and his right forearm comes down like an axe on the man’s throat.

The man twists at the last second, instinct protecting his head, but a body is still softer than the floor, and his full weight is enough to leave the man stunned. Jesse lashes out with good foot in a mountain kick, hitting _something_ , because his other foot is released with a shout.

He rears his head back to smash it into the nose of the man beneath him, but Jesse is thrown off. He tumbles off to the side, rolling once before he can get back to his feet.

And that’s long enough for the woman to be back on her feet, and the man to get half-way to it. Jesse draws for his spare side arm, but he isn’t quick enough. The woman darts forward, and he’s too slow to fire—she pulls his wrist up, swoops under his arm and plants a sharp elbow into his solar plexus.

It knocks the wind out of him and he stumbles back—swiping at her gun and missing—but she doesn’t rush forward again. It’s a mistake. Because while she knocked the air out of his chest, he’s learned his lesson the first time. His grip on his sidearm was iron, and even as he staggers back he levels his gun. Pulls the trigger.

And there’s nothing. Nothing but his shocked expression as she bats his useless gun away and swings him off his axis like a rag doll.

She had ejected the fucking magazine.

Jesse catches himself against the wall, but there’s two people between him and a working gun; seven people between him and winning; and seven minutes left to do it.

Jesse narrows his eyes. That thrumming is still singing below his skin and his head buzzing like a livewire, but that—that little pit of dread and static in his chest? It’s familiar as his own name. All this shit? Just another fucking week in Deadlock. He’s done it before, and he’ll do it again.

The difference now is that he’s better than he was before. Jesse adjusts his grip on the shell of his gun so that the muzzle lines up on the outside of his wrist. And then he dives back into the fight, his plan weaving itself together like a lie, because that’s another thing he knows well.

Jesse’s just doing the things he’s always done. All that’s left to do is commit.

* * *

 

Gabe had been worried for a minute that all the Overwatch graduates would be incredibly incompetent and leave him with an unintended problem. He’d jumped the gun on his deal, because McCree was better than he had expected. That same cleverness and adaptability Gabe had to deal with in their first meeting was back with a vengeance. However, the brawl happening on the screen had put those worries to rest.

“So that’s the right-hand man,” Jack says. Looks like the Strike Commander did look at mission recaps from time to time. Good to know paperwork wasn’t a complete waste of time.

Gabe hums uncommittedly. “Debatable categorization. It’s the best descriptor we had at the time with our limited knowledge.” Very limited knowledge. For such a big reputation and closeness to all the organizers, McCree didn’t have a lot of actual clout on policy. He didn’t pretend that he did, either.

Ana tilts her head, feigning disinterest. “You know he’s lying about—”

“Of course, I know,” Gabe says sharply. They’ve already had this argument. More than once. “But dragging out a confession isn’t going to change anything. So let him have it.”

“I’m just commenting that—"

“I feel left out,” Jack whines, trying to deescalate things with some half-assed ironic comment. “I only get lied to by politicians. Both of you are dealing with teenage rebellion, and I’m here with an empty nest. I’m going to die unfulfilled at this rate.”

Gabe and Ana shoot him equally disdainful looks—but Ana is fighting a wry smile and Gabe scoffed too loudly to pass it off as a cough, so Jack doesn’t look shamed for his shitty joke.

Jack wasn’t used to playing peacekeeper, but when he bothered to interfere, he wasn’t half bad. His customer-service/politician-pleasing persona had gotten better since he’d first taken the promotion from the UN. It came in handy for all the not-spats Gabe and Ana kept getting into, since neither of them felt like letting a few things go.

 Ana makes the first apology by admitting Gabe knew talent when he saw it.

Gabe makes the second by stating that skill only gets better with time and experience.

Jack shakes his head empathetically at the dropkick that took out one of the defender’s knees. “Oh damn, that’s gonna hurt.” The kid follows up with a sharp knee to the face, sending the man sprawling. He stomps down, aiming for the downed man’s neck, but it goes wide. He forgot about his other problem, and the arm lock she has him in is going to break a bone unless he pays attention.

Ana says politely (just an innocuous observation, really), “Once again, you forgot to bring a medic.”

The kid escapes a broken arm, but only by going to the floor. It looks like he regrets it immediately.

Gabe shuts his eyes. He’s not rehashing this old argument. “It’s paintball.” The whole _reason_ it’s paintball is to have a safe tactical environment.

“I’ll make the call.” Ana pulls out her comm and directs Minerva to alert the medical staff, first aid is required at the simulation barn, no, a junior medic should be sufficient, best for help to come immediately—

“He’s got a mean left hook,” Jack says, leaning forward in his chair. He’s all interest now, the gears visibly turning behind his eyes as he draws conclusions. And from the jabs, to the way Jesse refuses to let either of his enemies back off, to the way the kid takes his empty gun and pistol-whips the man across the face three times in a row, there’s a lot of conclusions to be drawn. “He’s not used to dealing with people smaller than him.”

Yeah. Gabe already knew that one.

The furrow between Ana’s eyebrows has returned. “He’s determined.”

It’s not a compliment.

“His psychologist cleared him for potential violent impulses,” Gabe says. Unprovoked violent impulses, at least. It had been a lot to hope for, but still welcome.

Ana hears the argument, but she goes for a dignified placation instead of a justified snipe. “I’m referring to his injuries. He broke a finger or two in that fall.”

“Adrenaline,” Jack says. “He’s going to notice it in a minute. Not fun for him.”

Gabe held in a sigh. _Determined_ implied a certain degree of control. Or rational thought. Or a goal, because there’s no _reason_ for the kid to be trying this hard.

 _Desperate_ covers the mess around Jesse McCree a bit better.

There’s a knock at the door, but Gabe won’t turn away from the screen. He’d been too hasty and hadn’t hedged his bets enough. Jack would mock him for months if he got out-played, but Gabe is starting to see where that fearsome ‘Deadeye’ reputation came from. In terms of tactics and sense, the kid isn’t shabby.

“Mom?”

Ana isn’t as invested in the drama. “Fareeha? Oh, _habibti_ ,” Ana says, her voice turning soft as she speaks quietly in Arabic. _What’s wrong? Are you okay?_

Maybe Jack had been right about boredom. It’s a tempting theory, but Gabe puts it on ice after a half-second of fantasy. There hadn’t been any problems before McCree’s curiosity, and then subsequent temper tantrum this morning. It boiled down to Deadlock.

Figures. A thousand miles away, and still managing to be a pain in the ass.

Fareeha and Ana are murmuring back and forth in Arabic; fast enough that Gabe can’t keep track. He’s not trying too hard. Out of both respect and disinterest. The unplanned brawl at the site is winding to a painful close just in time for medical treatment. How convenient.

The woman dances back to her feet, retreating, and McCree tries to tackle her back to the floor. He gets a half grip, and she puts a stop to it with an ugly punch to the face. When he goes down, the slam is audible even on the observation end.

The woman leans against the wall, clutching at her eye while fumbling for her spare sidearm. Her raw skill in combat made Gabe take note of her name despite her hesitation to use her firearm. The other defender is still on his knees, trying to stem the bloodflow from the row of lacerations lining his cheek. Despite not looking pretty, he’s not in the worst shape of the three.

McCree isn’t getting up.

“Fareeha?”

Gabe sighs heavily, a weight lifting off his chest. Looks like the kid is down, and desperate couldn’t make up for a lack of skill. It would be a good lesson.

_“There’s only one—"_

That defending sidearm fires six times. Blue paint splatters walls and clothing and the floor.

Jack laughs, sounding genuinely pleased. “Clever.”

Gabe narrows his eyes.

McCree gets his knees back under him and spits blood off to the side, his teeth stained red and his eyes burning. He tosses the stolen firearm, dragging himself to his feet. “Son of a fu—”

Jack mutes the feed for Fareeha’s benefit, but he’s still delighted with his pre-breakfast entertainment.

Ana stands up and puts herself between the live feed and her daughter. “Fareeha, come, we can go elsewhere.” Even if she understands the situation better, Ana still isn’t thrilled with Fareeha’s curiosity.

From the sound of Fareeha’s response, she isn’t thrilled with being sheltered. Or with being herded outside by Ana.

McCree pulls himself together quickly, retrieving his supplies. If Ana’s right about breaking a finger, Jack was wrong about his adrenaline hypothesis, because Gabe can’t detect even a little hesitation. No second for a breath, no pause.

He didn’t get away without a scratch, though. He’s limping, he’s fumbling with reloading, he’s bleeding. Avoiding injury is the whole _point_ of this—Gabe reaches for his microphone after a moment of deliberation. It’s over. The kid doesn’t have enough time, anyway. He never did.

Jack elbows him in the ribs, keeping his voice low despite the door between them and Ana. “Bet you he can pull it off.”

Gabe shoots a wary look his way. “Really?”    

“Maybe. But the look on your face if he does? That’s gonna be priceless.” Jack sits back, musing on the possibilities. “I mean, he’s not awful. I’d take him off your hands—”

“Not happening.” Jack gets a kick out of that, so before he can go poke at Gabe about whatever he interpreted that as, Gabe follows up with, “He’d pick up on your bad habits.”

“All my habits are great,” Jack says imperiously as he unmutes the feed, but he lets it go. Then he rebalances the audio to tune out the testaments to McCree’s (also diagnosed) desensitization to violence. From the looks of it, the resident medic had it handled.

Gabe sighs, but there’s a sort of contagious curiosity itching inside his skull. It wasn’t McCree’s skills. Gabe had dozens of agents who were better, although none quite so young. It was the persistence. The lack of hesitation. There isn’t a second of pause as McCree pushes forward.

While hurrying through, McCree raises his wrist and makes a big show of tapping at it. Like a watch. Not bothering to ask, because he already figured out no one was listening. No complaints.

“Not taking your bet. You’d be insufferable if you lost twice in a row.”

* * *

 

Jesse lies back and evens out his breathing. His sweat and the cold floor beneath his aching back sapped all the heat from his skin. The drop was only twelve feet. Ten, if he rolled off correctly. He’d taken further falls, but if he broke his ankle, he’d really be up shit creek.

Hah. Look at him stalling. He had already decided, decided the second he skirted and ducked and snuck behind the defending cover. That took time. Time he didn’t have. He was committed. If he backed out now, he might as well just lie back and let the clock run out.

Jesse clenches his hands. His left doesn’t respond. His right does, even if it sparks and throbs with pain. Right handed it is. That’s probably good.

If he timed it right, nothing would happen. Deadeye took time to wind up. Paintball could get dangerous, but it gave him room for error. As long as this got him a view of everyone, he could fire immediately. No need to wait. No need for it to get deadly.

Jesse sucks in a deep breath, silent as he can. He turns his head, just enough to get a solid peak of the defense below him. They are still waiting, silent and tense. Now, this, this had been a great formation, exactly how Jesse would have done it. It had been such a pain to move quietly with these fucking boots, and a bigger pain to do it without being seen. But up here, he’s got a clear line of sight, and he will for at least a half second.

He’s made his choices and hedged his bets, and this is just how it’s going to happen. He didn’t want to be stuck here, rotting on memories. No way forward, no way back.

Jesse shuts his eyes and listens, but the focus is unnecessary. Deadeye has been buzzing inside his skull for months. The whispers in his ears rise into the wordless rush of wind. Light burns through his eyelids, glowing like red-hot iron. The heat sinks into his skin, slides down his skull and spine like syrup.

He swings his legs over the edge, and before the anyone can understand, Jesse opens his eyes and slips off the ledge.

_Wait wait wait_

And he almost does.

But before he can forget, the ground rushes up, and the pull of gravity doesn’t care how hungry the world is. And neither does Jesse.

He fires, faster than he can blink, and then he slams into the floor.

Thankfully, he’s not really there to feel it.

Jesse picks himself off the floor some seconds later, only after he gets the rush in his head to calm. He gets himself upright, even as the ground shifts under his feet, to the sound of someone hacking up a lung. He’s not done yet. His nose is dipping right off his face and his eyes are ready to crumble out of their sockets and his knuckles are turning purple on him and he is not done yet. So he’s not about fall, not matter what his inner-ear tells him gravity is doing.

Jesse leaves his gun on the floor, and when the plastic breaks, he doesn’t give a shit.

There’s the package. Some mock-up warhead or bomb or whatever; it’s clearly labeled, and that’s all he cares about. And it’s within reach.

“Hey, Commander Reyes,” Jesse drawls, taking his leisure to stretch out his shoulders and wipe the blood off his swollen face. “How much time do I got?”

The silence is the best thing he’s heard in weeks. Finally, Reyes reports with a short burst of static, “Forty seconds.”

“Huh.” Jesse grabs the package and tucks it under his arm. Around him, agents sit up from their play death. The glare he gets from the poor soul who ate paint makes him laugh under his breath. “And here I thought I was doing okay. Looks like I need to keep better track of my time.”

Reyes doesn’t say a word.

Jesse tries to curl his static-dead fingers. And then he looks away from his mottled hand. Out of sight and all that. “You still want me to book it to extraction? Kinda redundant, I reckon. But, hey—you’re the boss.”

“Remain where you are. Medical treatment is incoming.”

“Sure?” Jesse tilts back his head, and then shuffles his feet so he won’t immediately fall on his ass.

Reyes doesn’t give him an answer.

Thank god for shitty microphones. If Reyes heard the little cracks and crumbles in his voice, all that weakness floating around like dust motes in low light, he woulda called that bluff. As it is, Jesse just keeps his right eye sealed tight and his head tilted back. Deadeye isn’t very happy with the lack of blood, and Jesse feels it right down to his brainstem

The door behind him opens, all rusted creaking, and Jesse’s hand jerks to his hip on impulse. He stomps down on the instinct. Counts to three. He turns to catch a glance as he reaches for his hat.

His hat isn’t there. But Dr. Zeigler is. Her eyes widen in shock for half a second, before her eyebrows come down like an iron bar. She’s trying her damndest not to snarl at him. It’s not going well. “I swear,” she huffs as she hurries over with a large first aid kit. “One request. Just one.”

Jesse shrugs. “I’m fine.” He’s great. He’s crashing and about to go straight to sleep, but other than that? Golden. Never better. Blood trickles down from his nose and Jesse wipes at it with the back of his good hand.

Zeigler breathes deeply. She places a light hand over his shoulder, guiding him towards a place to sit down. Gives him gauze for his scrapes and busted nose and guides his hand on how to hold it. “Does anyone else have immediate injuries?”

One of the guards coughs and spits another gaudy red glob of paint onto the floor, shrugging off their goggles. “This is non-toxic, right?”

Zeigler looks between the two of them, assessing threat. She waves everyone over and looks them over for injury. Aside from the paint-eater, who has to get cleared for throat damage, Jesse didn’t leave behind a lot of casualty. Just paint all plastered over heads and safety goggles. Nobody dead or dying.

That’s a first for Deadeye.

Laughs pop and punch their way out of his chest, until he’s just grinning. It’s not nearly as self-satisfied as earlier, but there’s just _something_ hilarious there. Some joke where he’s only got the punchline.

Dr. Zeigler, when she gets back around to him, dosen’t find life nearly as funny.

* * *

 

Gabe opens his mouth. And then he shuts it.

Jack doesn’t have the same hesitancy. “So. Breakfast?” He’s over the fucking _moon_. Gabe bets he would have taken pictures if he actually expected the kid to pull it off.

Ana gives Jack her driest look of disappointment. He isn’t shamed, but she doesn’t say worse because of Fareeha, who’s watching the screens with all the sobriety of a funeral goer.

Reyes sighs deeply, rubbing at the headache building behind his temples. His to-go cup is out of coffee and the source of his migraine will be in the medbay for the next hour anyway. No use thinking about the impossibility of it. “Sure.”

* * *

 

When Jesse wakes up, it’s because someone knocked on his door. He cracks an eye open. The glare stabs straight through his head. The other eye works a bit better. He can actually see who came for him. “How—” He breaks off into coughs. His mouth aches down to his teeth and his throat stings. “Howdy, Miss Fareeha.”

Fareeha’s mouth is set in a hard line, but she won’t look at him. “I thought—” she says haltingly, “You said you’d wait.”

“Yeah. I lied.” He hadn’t even meant the words as he said them. But that’s probably not what she wants to hear.

“Dr. Zeigler said you have a concussion. You weren’t supposed to fall asleep.”

Jesse shrugs, not sitting up. People talked about concussions an awful lot, but he’s yet to see the big deal with ‘em. Besides, he doesn’t recall her saying that. “I’ve been up too long not to get some shut-eye.”

Fareeha hesitates, before coming over to sit in the chair by his observation-table. She’s surprisingly agile on those crutches of hers. She stares at her lap, picking her words slowly. “I got my friends to look you up. You still don’t exist.”

Jesse shuts his eye. He knows that tone. “But?”

“But the other thing did.” Fareeha breathes in, slow and heavy. “So that’s it?”

Jesse tries for a smile, but his mouth is pulling all wrong for sincerity. “Yeah. Guess your ma was right after all.”

She looks up, and her eyes are about as heavy as the sky. “I don’t think so,” she says, quiet but very certain.

Jesse blinks. “Huh.” He sits up, his back against the wall and his non-broken fingers drumming across his knee. “Why—why do you reckon?”

“You wouldn’t be here if you were dangerous.”

Funny. Jesse’s mouth twitches at that one. Last time he checked, he’s here exactly because he’s dangerous.

“Well,” Fareeha amends, “Not to people here. Because you—you did really well. In your sim-run. Really well. But you also—you seem—”

“Seem nice?” Jesse fills in.

Fareeha purses her lips. Nods.

Jesse has met a lot of people who seem nice. He’s met a lot of people who _are_ nice, who have got manners and are polite. And that didn’t ever make them less ruthless. Keeping with niceties while you’ve got a gun to someone’s head doesn’t make you better than the person who doesn’t bother.

“But it’s not just that.” She catches his eye and refuses to look away. “You’ve never asked me for anything. And you talked to me before you knew who I was. And gave me advice. And trusted me to know. . . _this_ , even if not all of it upfront.”

Jesse shakes his head. “Actions don’ make you good.”

And he sees his mistake immediately. He didn’t say it right. He didn’t specify enough. Actions in one specific context don’t make you good. Actions can’t wipe out what you’ve already done. Being nice doesn’t mean _shit_.

That’s not some sob story. That’s just Jesse knowing you got dealt the cards you got. You made your plays. Your debts are all written down. You’re the role you got casted for. And that’s just life. You’ve done what you’ve done. A vulture singing a different tune doesn’t get rid of the rotting flesh stuck in its beak.

But Fareeha’s eyes flash with victory, and she raises her chin all challenging, and she says, “Then what does? All the good in this world comes from the things we do to make it better. You had—had a rough start. But now you’re here to do better and I think that’s what matters.”

Jesse shuts his eyes. Bless her heart, it’s a real sweet sentiment. She believes it, too. She’s probably heard it all her life from her family and Overwatch and fairytales, and if all those things agree, then it must be the truth.

She doesn’t know what he’s done. She doesn’t know why he’s here. He could rip her argument to shreds with a little bit of elbow grease. He could rid himself of trouble with Amari. He could, he could, he could.

He could chase off the one person who’s invested enough to worry about—

Screw it. He’s tired and concussed and dealing with a kid who’s liable to get messy with that bleeding heart of hers. It’s been a rough day. He can go a little further and humor her.

Jesse nods after a second. He laughs and forces his voice into something sincere enough to match. “Well, shoot, who can argue with that one?”

Fareeha frowns.

Not sincere enough.

“You may not believe me now,” She says, a furrow growing between her eyebrows, “But you will. You’ll see.”

Jesse can’t bring himself to refute that. He looks away.

Fareeha breathes out slowly. Then, she circles round and switches tracks. “My friends back home had to look for a little bit, but they found recent news. I didn’t have them send it but—"

Jesse cuts her off with a hand and a split-second decision. “Ah, I don’ wanna trouble your time with that shi—stuff, Miss Fareeha. It’s all in the past. It doesn’t matter.”

Fareeha’s mouth twists in concern. Her worry is hangs on his shoulders like a physical weight. “Are you sure?”

It’s been a while since anyone fussed over him and his feelings.

“Yeah. I’ve got other stuff to think about now. No use hanging onto—”

_Something dead and dying_

“—something so far behind me.” Jesse gives a tight smile. It’s nearly the truth. Deadlock is vanishing behind him just like some bar off route 66; getting lost in the dust and mirage competing for space in his rearview mirror. “I don’t want to think about it.”

About being a sucker, and then a failure, and then a sell-out. He’d done an alright job of not thinking about it. Reminiscing, certainly, but never going too far down the rabbit hole. There was a reason he hadn’t found out about his child locks before now: He learned the hard way how to leave things behind.

Fareeha nods, not understanding, but respecting his decision. “Then. . . What do you want to think about? Because Dr. Zeigler asked me to keep you up until she got back.”

Jesse shrugs. “How’s your last month been?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update: so this took a bit longer than i expected, but hey! more plot is coming
> 
> UPD8: so school meant writing took a back seat for a few months. im trying to juggle a couple projects rn, but i havent given up on red ink quite yet, so please be patient with me!

**Author's Note:**

> I love constructive criticism. If y'all have /any/ recommendations, I would love to hear them. And if you loved it, please let me know! reviews are my number one inspiration for when writers block hits! I post some art and stuff for this story to my tumblr occasionally @goshersss so follow me there for more red ink content or if you have any plot questions or recommendations.


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